Fang and Claw

by Markie Madden

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Undead Unit Series

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  Immortal Species

  Coming Soon!

  Prologue

  About the Author

  Online

  Her Books

  Her Books

  Also by This Publisher

  Linked

  Fang and Claw

  The Undead Unit Series 1

  Markie Madden

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictional and are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, (or Undead!), locations, or incidents is coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 by Marguerite Madden

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means- electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles—without the express written permission of the author or publisher.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. I’m not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Print ISBN# 978-1502540539

  Smashwords ISBN# 978-1311233707

  Published by Metamorph Publishing

  Over a hundred years in the future, it’s a world where supernatural beings live and work among humans. Of course, the government has forced them to take the Undead Oath in order to gain citizenship; they must not prey on humans for food. They’re given tasks in jobs suited for their species, but just as among other minorities, they must struggle to prove themselves.

  As if dealing with racial prejudice isn’t enough, there is also a criminal element, just as there is with any group of beings living in society. The Dallas Police Department has introduced an elite new squad made up of Undead officers and detectives. This unit is dedicated to solving crimes involving Immortals. Headed by veteran detective Lacey Anderson, can the Undead Unit overcome its obstacles, both internal and external, or will it be doomed to failure?

  To Darrell McDowell, who was rudely taken from us on Christmas Day. What better way to live forever than between the pages of a book? I wish I’d had time to know you better. See you around!

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Also to Carrol Burgess, who lost her battle with cancer during the writing of the final chapters of this book. I have many fond memories of playing Yatzee or going to bingo with you. You were a fine lady and you’ll be missed in this world. God speed.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  And to Uncle Larry, who passed away during the final editing and formatting. Though I haven’t seen you in many years, Christmas Eve will never be the same again! Say hello to Aunt Pat for me, will you?

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to take this opportunity to say thank you to a few people who helped me along the way and made this book possible. There’s a lot of work involved in writing a book such as this, and many hours spent in research and editing.

  The first is author Sharon K. Miller (The Clay Remembers), who gave me great critiques on some of the early chapters and helped me to make my writing as technically perfect as I could. It took a bit to pound into my head the concept of POV, but she persevered! She’s a lovely woman whom I met on the online writer’s group Scribophile, and I really appreciate all her help.

  Another wonderful resource was author Fiona Quinn (Missing Lynx, Weakest Lynx). Besides being an author, she blogs on ThrillWriting insightful articles to help crime writers in various subjects such as weaponry, police procedure, and many other issues relating to crime fighting and prosecution. And if she didn’t have an answer, she usually knew who to ask to get it!

  Thanks to my beta readers, which includes (among others) authors Claire Plaisted (my sister on another continent, author of the Garrett Investigation Bureau series), Sharon K. Miller, C.K. Dawn (Cloak of Shadows), and Gary Seaton, all of whom offered excellent suggestions, gave me quite an investment in their time, and were always there for me when I got stuck on a word or phrase, or just generally needed to spout ideas or vent about anything and everything! You guys are all the best!

  Prologue

  “I am not an Athenian, nor a Greek, but a citizen of the world.” ~~Socrates

  Greece, early 17th Century BCE

  The room was silent except for the occasional crackle of wood in the fireplace. She knew Aegon always preferred to burn pine; he said it had the most pleasant scent of all the available woods. She took in a deep breath, and with her heightened senses, she could smell what he meant. The pitchy odor from the sap of the softwood tree filled the small room, and the warmth of the fire gave it a welcoming feel. Spending time in this room was one of her favorite things. She sat comfortably in the low-slung wooden seat, and gazed about the tiny extension of Aegon’s home, the place where he did some of his finest work.

  The room was unique from others in Athens, because of what hung on the insides of the woven grass walls. Aegon was a clothing-maker, a tailor, and there were many different projects scattered about the room in different stages of completion. He was known for making some of the most elaborate himations, cloaks that were fit for royalty to wear, but as he didn’t require much in the way of food or supplies, Aegon always kept his prices low to cater to the peasants living near him.

  Several garments were laid out on low work tables, some leather, some of woven cloth, some waiting for the final touches of beads, buttons, feathers, or any number of other decorations. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch them, to examine them closer and learn how they were put together. Aegon was just now putting the finishing stitches on another himation that he had promised would be ready by dawn.

  His back was to her, he was busy with a task, so she turned from her inspection of some of his pieces to ask her mentor a question about a cloak, but then she heard the noise. At first, the sound was so quiet she wasn’t quite sure what she heard. She tilted her head, straining her hyper-sensitive hearing in case it came again. Her entire being was tense, every muscle in her predatory body primed to move at the slightest provocation. Then, it pierced the air again.

  This time, she recognized the Wolf song, though she had never heard it before. Wolves were not native to the area around Athens, though they may have lived in some of the wilder, less populated areas of the country. It didn’t matter, her ingrained instincts knew what it was, and all the fine hairs on her body stood on end. A shiver, not quite controlled, ran down her spine. Aegon was still facing away from her, but she saw him tense as well. He, too, had recognized the song. Almost faster than she could see, he turned toward her.

  “Stay here,” he hissed. “I’m going to find Abana!” And he left in a flash.

  With her hero and mentor now gone, her anxiety climbed enough for her to begin quivering in fear. The sound of Wolves had touched some instinct deep inside her, and she was more afraid than she had ever been in her life. If it were possible, her skin would have a light sheen of fear perspiration. As it was, her skin began to crawl, even though it was dry. She wanted to run, to hide, but she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Aegon in that way. Sh
e would stay and fight, fight to the death if that was what it took.

  He returned quickly, beckoning her to follow as the sound of Wolves drew closer. He brought her through the main part of his home, a two-room structure built of stone. The larger of the two rooms held a stone hearth, a small table built of wood with its accompanying stools, and a low padded bench sitting under the biggest window. Aegon led her through to the smaller room, the room he shared with Abana. She never went in this room; they were her mentors, and she always respected their privacy. There were no windows in this room, and the door was made of heavy stone as well. Only someone with incredible strength would be able to open or close it.

  She expected Abana to be there, but she wasn’t. She looked at Aegon, curiously. He shook his head; it seemed that he, too, had no idea where his wife had gone. A cold mist of fear slicked over her as she fervently hoped Abana wasn’t in the garden she loved, where she tended plants as if they were her children. It would not do for any of them to be left so exposed to the threat bearing down upon them.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  The scene shifted, in the way memories sometimes do; now she was ready and waiting for the attack to come. Death was a very real possibility. Merope was between the wall and the low bed belonging to their teachers, cowering with her arms covering her head, sobbing; it seemed the poor girl gave no thought to the fact that she was responsible for the trouble. Phemius lay thrashing on the bed, his dark eyes empty and unseeing, lost inside himself while the illness raged at its peak, and she knew from her own experience that whatever might happen next could not be any worse than the agony he was suffering now.

  “Why don’t you get up and help?” She hissed through her teeth at the young woman. “You got us into this mess!”

  But Merope only shook her head and continued to sob.

  Realizing she would get no help from either Merope or Phemius, she reached under the bed, finding a sword that either Aegon or Abana had, in preparation, left there, and she swung it in her hands a few times, trying to get used to the weight and find the balance of the weapon. She was as ready as she could be. She tuned out Merope’s sobbing cries, and focused all her attention on the howling of the Wolves. They were closer now. So very close....Close enough she could hear not only the song but the snarls as well.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Once more, the scene shifted, and she regained consciousness to find herself laying on her side, on the hard floor. Pain stabbed through her body and at that moment, she wished for death. She and Aegon were the only two left alive, she, injured, and Aegon, valiantly trying to fight off a pack of ten alone. She tried to get up, tried to roll over, tried to reach for the sword mere inches from her hand. Each movement was agony, and she moaned, hoping to catch the attention of one or more of the Wolves. But through the snarling and the loud bumps and thumps of battle, no one heard her.

  At that moment, she was paralyzed, and she could not close her eyes to the horror of what was happening before her. A muffled cry escaped her lips as she watched her mentor, who she had come to know as father, being torn to shreds. The scent of his blood was overpowering. The sound of sinew and muscle tearing was a roar in her head. One Wolf had Aegon by the shoulder, another had teeth sunk deep into his hips. The rest of the pack were darting in for quick slashes of teeth and claws before jumping out of his reach again.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  United States, 2118 CE

  With a cry of distress, the woman sat bolt upright in her four-poster bed, throwing aside the velvety soft bed sheets. The vestiges of the memory remained even though her eyes were no longer glazed with sleep. Had it been possible, she would have been drenched in sweat. Had it been possible, her heart would have been pounding. But for her, those things were impossible. Absently, she rubbed the old scars on her arm and tried to push away the memories that had haunted her for so long. For Lacey knew she was no longer in the 17th century.

  1

  “Man is by nature a political animal.” ~~Aristotle

  Dallas, Texas, United States, 2118 CE

  Though the passing of time meant little to Lacey Anderson, she knew it was the year 2118 Current Era, and just edging into late fall, the hot and humid Texas days merging with crisp, cool, desert-like nights. The world was the same as it always had been, but everything had changed. The thin tapestry of rigid society had experienced a change of epic proportions many decades ago with the acknowledgment of the Undead, a derogatory term humans used to identify species of beings with an immortal, or almost so, lifespan. Those like myself, she mused.

  Lacey remembered the day she had been forced to take the Undead Oath. It had been a choice of taking the Oath, or being executed. Though she had lived and worked among humans for centuries, she had to stand before a judge and repeat the words of the Oath while sworn to tell the truth. The Oath made each of the Immortals swear to abide by all human laws, especially where the harming of others was concerned. No Immortal could work among humans without taking it. The Oath was worded in a different way for each species; for her, it meant not drinking human blood.

  All of this passed through Lacey’s mind in a flash as she gazed out the window over the shoulder of a large man sitting comfortably in a huge burgundy chair with gold accents. Even though the leather chair was extra-large, the man’s sheer bulk made it appear tiny, as if he were an adult trying to use a child’s seat.

  “You want me to do what?” She finally asked as she stood at stiff attention, back ramrod-straight, the hands clasped behind her vibrating with anger. Despite the precaution of the closed office door, she was sure the sound of her raised voice was apparent to whomever was still at their desks in the bullpen. She didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder through the frosted glass window on the door. “What is this, some way to get me to quit so you don’t have to fire me?”

  Her commander, George Wilson, a big, burly man whose pate was covered in thick, black hair shot with silver, shook his head. He sat behind his pristine oak desk, large, paw-like hands folded together and resting on the immaculate blotter. The huge window behind him offered a breathtaking view of the bustling business district around them. The tawny colors of dusky sunset sparkled in the spaces between city skyscrapers. With a bemused expression, he explained the new assignment to her.

  “The unit is being formed as an experiment.” His voice was like a military commander during a debriefing, a leftover habit from his days of serving in the Army. “Believe me, I fought against it as hard as I could, but I was outvoted.” He cleared his throat. “It’s thought, by some,” and his voice betrayed his frustration of the stupidity, “that a unit made up of Undead officers will have more success in investigating and closing cases involving either Immortal victims or perpetrators. Though you’ll be in charge, we felt that you needed a second and partner who could complement your strengths and balance out your weaknesses.”

  My weaknesses? She stared at her commander, the man she had taken under her wing when he was just a rookie, and they were both beat cops. She’d taught him everything she knew, and as he rose in the ranks, they’d been partnered for years. The kind of bond that blossomed between two officers who trusted their lives to one another was not something that was easily built. Even when he had been promoted above her, because she refused to play the politics of his position, they still shared that connection.

  She could remain still no longer, and started to pace as he outlined the duties of the newly-formed specialty unit within the elite ranks of the Dallas Police Department. The thick, plush carpet beneath her well-worn boots masked any sound she may have made, and sprang back up after each footstep. He knows my history, she thought in anger. Doesn’t he know this is akin to torture?

  He didn’t move, but she watched his eyes track her, back and forth, back and forth. She knew he wasn’t afraid of her, but he was evaluating her reaction; Vampires didn’t have the anger issues that came hand-in-hand with some species of Immortal. The more she heard, the faster
and more agitated her pacing became. Her large strides took her quickly from one side of the office to another. Through her anger, she could no longer see the slashes of orange and pink sunset through the picture window, though it cast a feeble, sickly light across her face.

  “Of all the people you could pair me with, why on Earth would you put me with him?” Her voice was full of venom.

  “Both you and Colton were up for promotion. But you’re the one that got it.” His statement was bland.

  She spun around to face him. “But, he’s a Wolf, for God’s sake!”

  Lacey didn’t have anything against the Undead, being one herself, and she hadn’t worked often with Colton Scarber, so she had nothing against the man himself. But her kind, as a rule, didn’t trust easily, and had long been mortal enemies of Werewolves, due to a dispute the origins of which had been lost long ago. She couldn’t imagine working with one for a few days or a week on a case, much less bring one under her wing and trust her life to it!

  Lacey stopped pacing, turning and staring out the office window as the light faded over the city she was empowered to protect and serve, but seeing none of it. The sensation of ‘someone walking over her grave’ seeped into her, and she shivered as the emotion of fear washed over her. The long, erratic scars on her right shoulder and arm remained a constant reminder of the fangs and claws of a Wolf, and she rubbed the uneven surface of the scar as if to scrub away the memories associated with it. Her coven had been destroyed almost five centuries ago, and she alone had survived the attack.

  She thought Wilson understood the battle raging inside her, for he kept silent as Lacey fought to control her emotions and instincts. Having worked the streets with her for so long, the man had earned not only her respect but her trust as well. And trust was something that Lacey rarely did. She knew he suspected she had post-traumatic stress disorder after the incident that almost took her life, and was grateful to him for not pressing the issue. When she had regained control of herself the best that she could, she turned to face him once more.