Lisa Childs - Taming The Shifter

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How badly had that human detective’s bullets wounded Warrick? She hadn’t killed him; Reagan knew that or he wouldn’t have left the alley that night.

But because he didn’t know how badly Warrick had been hurt, he hadn’t left the city yet. He should have. No good would come of him and his brother being in the same city—not unless he could make Warrick listen to him. Make him realize that Reagan wasn’t the threat to him.

Guilt tugged at him, though, and the sunrise on which he had been so focused blurred before his eyes despite his front-row seat on a rooftop of one of Zantrax’s highest buildings. He had hurt his brother—far worse than the female detective’s bullets could have. He didn’t blame Warrick for wanting to kill him.

But Reagan wasn’t the only one who would die. Warrick would die, too. And probably so would she .

That was why Reagan hadn’t left yet. He had to make his brother listen to him. He had to—or they would lose more than their father and each other. They would lose even more than their lives...

Chapter 3

The high-rise buildings cast deep shadows, blocking out whatever glow of the moon that might have illuminated the alley. Kate had only her flashlight, which she gripped tightly in one hand, and her gun, which she gripped in the other. The Glock was still holstered, but the leather strap was unclasped, so it was ready to be drawn.

This place, this damn alley , and the club housed in the basement of one of the buildings, creeped her out. Too many strange things happened in this part of Zantrax—around Club Underground. Paige’s stalking, Bernie’s flying people and now his disappearing body...

Last night that strangeness had invaded Kate’s bedroom when his body had reappeared there—alive.

Despite the sweater and heavy jacket she wore and the fact that none of the cool mid-November breeze could blow between the buildings, Kate shivered. She actually would have welcomed a fresh breeze; there was only stagnant, stale air in the alley. It smelled more of the trash in the Dumpster than the crisp scent of burning leaves and roasting pumpkins she usually associated with autumn.

But the ghost that never quite seemed to leave her—he fit in with the season. But he wasn’t really a ghost; she didn’t believe in them.

He had to be real.

But then who had she shot in the alley?

His twin? If so, what had happened to the body? She shone her flashlight beam around the alley, bouncing it off every brick on every wall of the three buildings that backed up to and blocked off the alley. There was no space between the buildings, no way for a body to squeeze out. None of the doors that opened onto it had been unlocked that night—most of them were walled off inside so that they never opened.

Frustration coursed through Kate and triggered her usually long temper, so that she snapped and kicked out, driving her heel into the corner of the Dumpster. Its rusty legs squeaked as it rolled back a couple of inches.

That squeak echoed one she’d heard before, just as she’d been running from the dark alley to get help for the man she’d shot. She had relived that night so many times that she remembered every sight, every smell and every sound...

The Dumpster must have moved that night, too.

She stepped closer to the rim of the rusted metal bin, gagging on the putrid odors that emanated from it, and shone her flashlight beam inside. The circle of light glanced off boxes and torn bags of garbage, from which coffee grounds, old liquor bottles and other food scraps and papers spilled out.

No homeless man.

Had Bernie been there that night? Was he the one who’d moved the Dumpster and the man? He’d claimed he hadn’t been, but Kate knew better than to believe what anyone told her. Too many people lied. Or kept secrets.

But if the vagrant had been there, would he have moved the Dumpster or would he have hidden quietly inside to avoid detection? She had checked the Dumpster that night; she had looked for that body everywhere—except beneath the metal bin. Kate pulled her hand from her holster and shoved her flashlight into her back pocket. She reached out for the Dumpster, pushing at it with both palms.

Her muscles strained in her shoulders, arms and stomach, but the metal crate barely budged, skidding inches across the asphalt. It creaked and squealed in protest of every bit of distance it moved. Gritting her teeth, Kate pushed harder. Then she reached for her flashlight again and shone the beam beneath where the Dumpster had been.

If she could find a trail of blood, she could prove that she hadn’t imagined what had happened that night. But a couple of months had passed. The blood could have washed away or degraded enough that she wouldn’t be able to find it with a flashlight. She would have to bring in a forensics crew. Would the department authorize it when they’d already gone over the alley once and found nothing but blood they claimed they couldn’t even prove was human?

Doubtful. So she had only herself and her own investigative skills to prove what had happened that night. That she had killed a man. She shivered, jiggling the flashlight so that the beam bounced around the asphalt and glinted off the metal of a manhole cover. She hadn’t noticed that before.

Could someone, perhaps his twin, have dragged the body down into the sewer? That made more sense than any alternative. Kate always needed to find the sense in even the most senseless of acts. Rationalizing the irrational was the only way she managed to keep her sanity with her career. And with her life...

She had seen and done many irrational, senseless things over the past forty years of her life. And this was probably another—but still she reached for the manhole cover, after setting her flashlight down on the asphalt, its beam directed toward the opening to the sewer.

But when she reached for the cover, the light moved off it. The beam rose, shining into her eyes—blinding her. She squinted against the light. “Who’s there?”

She hadn’t heard anyone enter the alley. Had felt no other presence. But, like last night in her bedroom, she was suddenly not alone.

“Is it you?” She reached for her holster—and the gun—even though it had done nothing that night. If she believed her late-night visitor, he had survived the bullets she’d fired into him. If she believed him, she couldn’t kill him. “What do you want with me?”

But she received no verbal reply. Her only answer was physical, as the beam swung down, and the heavy metal flashlight struck her head. For a moment she glimpsed a shadow behind the beam—tall, broad-shouldered. Dark.

It could have been him.

But then everything else went dark as Kate fell and her body struck the asphalt.

* * *

She was going to die. She was actually surprised that she wasn’t already dead—especially given what she had done to the pack—the dissension she had caused. But there was a reason they hadn’t killed her yet. They intended to use her as bait to draw Warrick and Reagan back to St. James—the village their father had founded in a remote area of the upper peninsula of Michigan.

But to draw them back, one of them would actually have to care about her. She glanced around the log and fieldstone cabin—empty but for her and the memories she had made there. Good and bad.

No. Reagan and Warrick weren’t coming back. And she couldn’t stay—because once the others realized that she served no purpose, they would kill her.

Sylvia’s fingers trembled as she struggled with the zipper on her suitcase. She had to hurry because time was running out. Warrick and Reagan had already been gone too long.

Maybe they had already killed each other, or maybe they had been killed. Grief and guilt struck her like a blow, and her eyes stung from the pain, tearing up. But she had already shed too many tears—of guilt and pain and loss and, if she was to be honest, self-pity. She blinked away the moisture and ignored the sting.