The scent of wolf was weakest near the boulevard, where
Miami night people in shiny cars followed a glittering
parade of cruisers in all directions, windows down, music
blaring. Weak maybe, Tory McKidd acknowledged, but noticeable.
Taking a last look at the lights, Tory detoured from the
street, entering the dark public park bordering the
boulevard on its western side. The smell of fur and skin and
Otherness became steadily stronger with each step she took.
Like a trail of bread crumbs in old children's tales, the
scent was easy enough for another wolf to follow.
A pack of Weres had marked this park like a bunch of stray
cats until it virtually reeked near the first line of trees.
The smell was familiar to Tory, had become an integral part
of her DNA, twisted there by her own genetics.
Werewolf.
She knew how dangerous it was for a female of any species,
human or Were, to be in such close proximity to an unknown
werewolf pack. She just no longer gave a damn about her own
safety; hadn't cared about much of anything since her
brother's death… except about finding his killer.
She pressed on, aware that the moon in the sky was
three-quarters full. Her transformation from woman into the
beast's shape was still a few days away and the need to
return to this park was the only objective keeping her
breathing.
Someone here, beneath these trees, had murdered her brother.
Something or someone had trapped Mark McKidd and tortured
him in unspeakable ways. Beaten him senseless. Shredded his
body, then tossed him here on the grass to die. As a mature,
genetic werewolf—tall, strong, immensely
capable—her brother should have been able to conquer
insurmountable odds. But he hadn't. He should have been able
to survive almost anything. But didn't.
He'd been gone six months. Dead. Finality. No more dinners,
tiffs, or playful outings ever again. No one left in her
family to warn her about the rashness of her current
mission. Then again, rashness was an undeniable werewolf
trait, for better or worse. One that came with the territory.
These last six months she had avoided the park where Mark
had drawn his last breath, fearing the images this place
might bring with it. Images of evil lurking so boldly in a
public space. Pictures that a sister with the ability to See
might dread. But things were different now. She'd had enough
of law enforcement's helplessness, enough of Mark's killer
remaining free. It was time to take matters into her own hands.
On full alert, Tory sensed something else in this park right
away. The weight of a sudden presence. Slowing, she raised
her chin, sniffed at the air. Besides wolf, this edge of the
park also carried a smell of thunder, though there wasn't a
cloud in the sky. The atmospheric metaphor for thunder was
anger. Here, not far from the unsuspecting crowds, a
combination of wolf and evil and anger caused the air to
thicken as if all of the dark things in Miami had congealed
at once.
So much darkness. Do I really want to look?
Edgy, drawn by a sound, Tory turned her head, her skin
already rippling with the chills signaling an upcoming
onslaught of Sight—an ability only coveted by those
who had never actually experienced it. An ability she had
always considered a curse. One that told her now, along with
the whiff of thunder, that someone whose body was being
fueled by adrenaline approached. And that this might be her
chance to find out what had happened here, in this place, to
the last male McKidd she knew of. Her brother.
She just had to make sure she was up to the task.
She glanced up at the sky. The moon might not have been
full, but was present enough in its current phase to help
her. In a rush, she rolled back her black shirtsleeves and
held up her arms, soaking in the bright, silvery light like
others in Miami soaked up the sun, feeling the burst of
extra strength it gave her.
Energy skittered across her skin, sparking like loose live
wires. She fended off a growl, opened her mouth and took in
light that changed to the consistency of liquid on her
tongue. She closed her lips, swallowed, shut her eyes.
An arrhythmical pulse began to beat in her neck, slow at
first, before starting to race. Her hands closed into fists
that would have, under a complete moon, sported lethally
sharp claws. But now was not that time.
A feeling washed over her, similar to the buildup of an
unnatural craving, like the ones people trying to kick
alcohol and nicotine habits had. Only, this craving was more
like the need to give birth. Not to a child, but to
something similarly other than herself, and yet still a part
of herself. In her case, the emergence of a new shape. A
unique blend of woman and wolf. She-wolf. Lycanthrope. It
was not going to happen tonight, though. Tonight she just
needed some help—in the courage and speed department.
Bathed the moon's light, she started to shake. Alongside the
racing heartbeats she felt a surge of fire roll through her,
a growing ball of flames that got bigger with each breath
she took, banishing the earlier chill. Fortified by the
comforting heat, Tory moved on, waiting not only for the
distraction in the park to manifest, in whatever form it
might take, but also for the dark thing swimming in her DNA
to recognize it.
Officer Adam Scott cursed a steady stream and upped his
pace. The guy he chased ran like a freaking greyhound,
covering way too much ground, too fast for his size and
bulk. It didn't help that midnight had come and gone, there
were no lights whatsoever in this park, or that as the
officer responsible for this beat, he couldn't see a damned
thing in the dark except the back of the gangbanger's white
T-shirt.
And it sure as hell didn't help that he didn't know this
park as well as the guy up ahead seemed to.
There was a moon overhead, providing just enough light to be
helpful. It was a typical June Miami night. Humid. Not even
a breeze. They were too far into the park grounds,
affectionately known as "no-man's-land" in the
precinct, for streetlights on the boulevard to have been of
use. Waving a flashlight would have been awkward.
On the plus side—if giving chase on foot had a plus
side— it was a good thing he'd been working out
regularly. What would those fat bastards at the precinct
have done if they'd had to go after this guy? Have heart
attacks, that's what.
Choosing a four-letter word that best suited the situation,
Adam took in air and pushed himself to the limits of his
endurance, struggling to keep the gangbanger in sight.
Got to get this guy!
Rob a convenience store in my territory?
The guy sprinted a full ten yards ahead. Adam could feel his
own heart pumping near to maximum capacity. He could
hear it throbbing in his veins. Human lungs could only go so
far, handle so much. So, was the guy up ahead using drugs or
pure adrenaline to keep up this ungodly pace? The department
joke had always been that these east side street gangs had
nothing human about them.
Nine yards.
Closing in.
Adam put a hand to his belt, fingered the cuffs to make sure
they were ready, but needed his arm free to help cut through
the balmy night air.
Seven yards.
Push, dog! Fire up the muscle. Find the zone.
The sudden presence of light up ahead was a welcome sight.
But the guy wasn't slowing one bit. Noises, other than the
bass beat inside Adam's chest, filled in the silence.
Unmistakable traffic sounds. Friday-night stuff. This fool
he'd been chasing for what felt like a mile was going to be
roadkill when he reached the boulevard if he didn't put the
brakes on.
One final heave of exertion, and Adam felt his lungs turn
hot. He tasted something sweet on his tongue, thought it
might be a side effect of oxygen depletion until he inhaled
a fragrance that went along with that sweetness. Orchids.
The night smelled like orchids. If not orchids, something
equally as exotic.
What the hell is that?
The hair at the nape of his neck stood up with the sudden
surprise of no longer being alone. His heart missed a beat.
There was movement in the dark beside him. Someone else was
running, coming in from the right to take a parallel path.
This person was dressed in black and hard to see, except for
a spot of white face surrounded by what looked like lots of
long, loose hair.
Could the g-b have a cohort? An accomplice?
Adam reached for his weapon, but didn't draw.
Wait. No. Not necessarily an accomplice. The
sweetness in the air, coupled with all that hair, suggested
that the new runner was a woman. An unbelievably fast woman.
Seriously fleet. She was waving something in her right hand
that glinted as it caught a stray stream of moonlight.
Cell phone.
Was she signaling to him that she'd called this in?
Why would she do that?
No time to think about it. The gangbanger had reached the
street, and contrary to all common sense—his recent
criminal offense aside—ran right out into the middle
lanes. A gangbanger idiot.
Approaching the curb, Adam reached out, took a firm grip on
the arm of the mysterious woman who'd gotten closer and was
still with him and yanked her to an abrupt stop.
"Hey!" he shouted to the idiot in the street,
hearing the distant sirens of approaching backup. "You
have a death wish?"
The rest happened quickly. Over the wheezing of lungs trying
to recover, Adam watched the g-b stop, and turn. Even
beneath the streetlights, he couldn't see the guy's face
clearly, but saw him open his mouth. A strange, eerie sound
emerged from that mouth. A roar—raw, angry, anxious,
guttural. Maybe even desperate.
Seconds after that came the thud of a body being struck by
something bigger and heavier. A screech of tires followed,
and the crash of several cars piling up. Adam leaned
forward, his grip on the woman forgotten. The guy was down.
No doubt about that or about his condition. Adam rushed into
traffic that was now at a standstill.
"Is he dead?" the startled truck driver who'd struck
the guy demanded, his eyes wide, his body language jumpy and
distraught.
"Afraid so," Adam said, kneeling, futilely searching
the downed guy's neck and wrist for a pulse, and knowing by
experience that no one could have survived such a direct hit
and be expected to take another breath.
Come to think of it, he noted as he searched the body for
ID, finding none, some of that damage looked as though it
might have been accumulated prior to the accident. Deep
purple bruises ringed the guy's eyes. Open lacerations
crisscrossed his arms. It looked as though chunks of his
skin and muscle were missing from one bare shoulder, the
injury still raw and weeping. A chalk-white scar, puckered,
disfiguring, and further evidence of past indiscretions, ran
the length of the young guy's face, temple to chin. This in
addition to arms and legs lying at odd angles on the
pavement from the truck's damage, and a spill of the wad of
twenty-dollar bills he'd just stolen from the convenience
store leaking from his side pants pocket.
The acrid odor of blood filled the air. Oddly enough,
though, above that smell another scent drew Adam's attention
upward to the crowd gathered around. Orchids.
Scanning the circle of shocked faces, Adam's search stopped
on one. Pale skin. Generous mouth. Big eyes, their color
indecipherable. An astonishingly beautiful face, above a
drape of black shirt.
The mystery woman.
He experienced a bump in his calm procedure-driven cop
exterior as he noted how the woman's shoulder-length hair
gleamed almost unnaturally in the truck's headlights. Curly
hair, loose, riotous, and an unusual shade of red. The color
of a Miami sunset.
Adam's eyes met hers. A second bump occurred, this time in
his chest, as though his heart had stalled. The background
faded into a distant blur. Sounds dimmed to a dull hum
beneath his own ragged breathing. Those eyes of hers…
He had an inexplicable urge to dive right into those eyes,
whatever their color. Just jump right in there and lose
himself in them. Forget all the bad stuff being a cop meant
he had to witness, and follow this woman home.
He wanted to…
"What do we do now?" one of the rear-ended drivers
asked, already on his phone, most likely dialed in to his
insurance company's hotline.
"The jerk ran right out in front of me. You all saw
that, right?" the truck driver demanded.
"Stay back, and stay calm," Adam said, jolted away
from his untimely little indulgence, speaking in the
practiced, authoritative tone of law enforcement on the job.
Hell, he should be good at it; he'd used this same tone on a
daily basis for eight years now. And he'd seen it all.
"We'll get to the bottom of things in a minute."
First, he would talk to the mysterious woman. The sloe-eyed,
flame-haired woman who had joined him in the park. He'd find
out who she was and what she had been doing there. How she
had kept up. What that delicious perfume was. With luck,
maybe he'd even get her phone number.
Digressing from the point here, big-time. Whatever
her purpose, and in spite of how good she smelled, she
should have known better than to run up on a cop in pursuit.
If he'd been anxious or trigger-happy, he could have shot her.
What a pity that would have been. Such a beautiful
package.
Almost hopefully, he again searched the sea of faces.
Nothing.
Ignoring the sweat in his eyes, he breathed deeply and
narrowed his search. Nada. New faces had taken her place.
The woman had gone. Which wasn't odd, Adam told himself.
Witnesses to an accident like this one seldom lingered. What
was odd, however, was the curious sensation of emptiness he
felt over finding her gone. The noticeable flutter in his
stomach that her absence caused.
With a body in the road and a seven-car pileup to deal with,
Adam felt an incomprehensible urge to go after her, try to
find her. He'd actually stood up straight, without knowing
he had. One of his feet moved. He set his jaw, knowing he
couldn't act on the impulse in spite of the sharp pang of
regret that hit him square in the gut for having passed up
the opportunity to… What, exactly? And with whom?
It was too damned hot.
Sweltering.
Ninety-eight percent humidity for the fortieth day in a row,
with no letup in sight—and that was with the sun
disappearing three hours ago.