If Lyla were still here, they would have gone to college together, maybe even been roommates. She could have been with Violet right now, waiting for her own coffee while chattering about her latest assignment and disagreements with the class tutor.
Violet sucked in a breath. The pang in her chest was a familiar companion to the bittersweet what-ifs. She couldn’t completely say that life was worse without Lyla. It was just that life would be better if Lyla were still in it.
Since losing Lyla, Autumn and Gus had become the closest thing to friends she had, apart from Nathan and Jude.
Living and sleeping so close to Autumn was a little claustrophobic at times, but it wasn’t all that different from bunking with half a dozen other foster children. And as far as roommates went, Autumn wasn’t too bad. She spent the majority of her time lost in her computer, laptop, or smartphone. The constant clack-clack of the keyboard had begun to disappear as white noise.
Violet was also getting to know a few other classmates who frequently visited their dorm room between classes. The main one was an Irish girl named Bessie, a bubbly go-getter with an unhealthy addiction to Hello Kitty, Japanese confectionary, and Quentin Tarantino movies. Autumn and Gus had met her at the party on their first day. They said they’d approached Bessie thinking she was Violet, but when Bessie started talking, the Irish accent immediately gave away the mistake. Other than the same hair color, Violet didn’t see the similarities, but several other classmates had since made doppelgänger comments.
One week into college and both Gus and Bessie were practically part of the furniture in Violet and Autumn’s room. The four of them got along really well, but Violet still made sure to set aside small amounts of free time for herself outside the dorm—usually in the mornings.
She’d woken early and sneaked out, even though it would be another hour or two before Autumn would be awake and vertical. This was the time she and Thane had agreed to meet, just as they had every day since the chai baptism.
The café was crowded with its usual morning rush. One of the baristas was whistling a light melody, barely audible beneath the grind and hiss of the coffee machines. Patrons huddled in for their morning buzz of caffeine, bringing biting gusts of wind each time one of them opened the door.
Violet scanned the café for a spare table and nestled into a seat. She still had a few minutes to kill before Thane arrived, so she snuggled into her jade-green woolen scarf and pulled out her camera. She’d been inspired on her walk over to snap a few candid shots of students taking advantage of the rare sunshine. She scrolled to a photo of a couple sitting on one of the garden benches. The guy had his arm draped casually around the shoulders of a girl in mid-laugh, her head thrown back, white teeth glistening. He was smiling at her as if he were entranced.
Violet had never had a boyfriend. What would it be like to be that girl? Their companionship seemed so close and comfortable. If either he or she were taken away, the photo would be incomplete.
She smiled, thinking about her recent conversations with Thane. Talking and laughing with him was surprisingly easy. It was hard to believe they’d already reached the last day of her promise to buy him coffee for the week.
“Friends of yours?”
Violet glanced up as Thane took the seat across from her. He shed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, then unwound the scarf from around his neck and bundled it on the table.
Violet blinked. “Sorry?”
Thane smiled and gestured to the camera in her hands. “The couple in the photo. Are they friends of yours?”
“Oh.” Violet looked down at the digital screen. “No, I was just taking some shots of some randoms on the way here.”
Thane’s eyes widened. “Oh. So you’re a stalker.”
Violet’s eyes bugged. “What? No! I’m not . . . What I mean is—”
Thane grinned and held his hands up. “Relax. I was just kidding.” He laughed. “You should see your face.”
Violet pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. How could this guy have this effect on her?
He chuckled once more. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease. What I should have said was ‘That’s a great photo. You have a real gift.’”
Something fluttered in her chest, and she couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks. You’re a real jerk.”
His eyes crinkled as he laughed. “You’re right. I deserved that.”
Their laughter died down. After a few heartbeats, Violet realized they were both staring at each other.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll, um, go order.” She swiveled in her chair and was about to stand when a young girl in the café uniform placed two takeaway coffee cups on their table.
“One cappuccino and one chai latte, am I right?” asked the barista.
Violet and Thane exchanged a look.
“Yeah,” said Thane.
“Great! You can pay when you’re ready, love.” The barista smiled and winked.
After she left, Thane gave Violet a conspiratorial grin. “Only seven short days and we’ve become regulars.”
Violet laughed. “Actually, I think it’s taken you seven short days. If you ask me, the barista’s crushing on you. Once my week of paying for your coffee is over, I’m pretty sure you could milk some more free ones out of her, especially if she figures I’m no longer in the picture.”
Thane’s brow furrowed. “No longer in the picture?” He looked down at his cappuccino and spun the cup a few times with his fingers. “Is that what you’d prefer?”
Violet tilted her head. “No, I was . . . I was just trying to make a joke.”
This time when he looked up at her, his eyes sparkled. “Great, because I was, um . . . I’d like to keep seeing you. That is . . . if that’s all right with you.”
Violet’s pulse raced. “Ah, yeah. I mean yes,” she said, nodding her head with a little too much vigor. “Yes. I’d like that too.”
Thane’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Great! So, how about next week, and this time the coffees are my treat.”
“Perfect,” said Violet.
8
Shark Grin
Nathan splashed water onto his face, then took a mouthful to rinse out the acidic burn of the bile he’d just retched into the adjacent toilet. This human life must be making him soft. He’d seen so many detestable things—even done some himself—but none had had the same effect on him as the decor of this house.
When he turned the tap off, he was plunged into silence. His mind raced as he looked up into the vanity mirror, trying to process the previous few minutes.
How many? That necklace alone was at least one, but that chandelier!
Emotions broiling in his torso overflowed, manifesting a piercing agony that stabbed into his elbows. He hurriedly took off his jacket before the sleeves could get shredded.
The slicing sensation intensified. Over the years, he’d learned to suppress it, but this time he allowed it to break free. He held up an arm and watched in the mirror as a glistening edge pierced through the skin of his elbow. It grew parallel to his forearm, gliding out until it almost reached his wrist. He lifted his other arm, where a crystalline multifaceted blade also protruded, a twin version of the first.
He inspected the blades, noting the distinct whirled pattern within the facets—a pattern similar to Mrs. Branstone’s necklace, as well as, most likely, to each crystal shard of the chandelier. Except the pattern on his Diamantium blades were his own, unique, like a fingerprint.
The image of Mrs. Branstone’s so-called diamond necklace flashed again in his mind, and he covered his face with his hands, remembering the scent of it. A knot tightened in his throat. He tried to clear his mind of the violent images, of the horror of his shifter race being butchered, their crystal bones broken into tiny shards and then reassembled into a graphic display of human wealth.
He shook his head in disbelief. Why was this making him so nauseated? He’d seen and handled the dead of his own kind before and never had this reactio
n. But then, except for one particular Veniri, he hadn’t been around any others since he’d absconded from his hive fifteen years ago, let alone any of the deceased. Maybe he was developing some kind of sensory sensitivity.
How had he not known about these hunters sooner? More importantly, did they know about him? For the past ten years he’d been so focused on keeping his Veniri identity a secret even Jude and Violet didn’t know. But he wasn’t privy to the hunters’ inner workings or how they discovered and tracked their prey. He doubted he would have lasted this long in their house if they did know. Maybe Jude was his saving grace, an unwanted witness.
. . . Or maybe she was in on it, helping to lure him into some elaborate trap?
He shook his head. That was crazy. There was no way. He was with her almost every day; he’d know if she was the duplicitous type.
He froze. Jude.
She was still out there. He doubted she was in any danger. If there was one thing he did know about Erathi hunters, it was that they didn’t hunt humans. Still, he didn’t like the idea of her being out there without him. He turned his attention back to his reflection and raised his arms. The slicing pain was less severe this time as the Diamantium blades melted back into his flesh.
His jacket securely back in place, he left the bathroom and headed back down the hallway. The lounge was empty. His heart skipped a beat, and blood rushed instantly to his head. His staccato pulse thumped in his ears as pressure built behind his temples.
Before panic could completely set in, he heard voices in the next room. He followed the sounds through a doorway on the other side of the lounge, unclicking the safety strap on his gun holster as he walked. He was just about to draw the weapon when Jude came into view. He recognized her business posture: back straight, shoulders squared, head down and nodding as she entered notes into her phone. She was muttering “mm-hmm” as she listened to whoever was speaking.
He let out a breath and re-strapped the gun, but just as he was about to enter the room, a baritone voice made him pause in the doorway. His relief evaporated.
Two males had joined Jude and Mrs. Branstone.
One was maybe in his late teens or early twenties, with white-blond hair. Nathan recognized him as Lyla’s older brother, Sagan. He was slouching against a wall, his arms crossed and his expression sour. When he spotted Nathan, his eyes grew wide, then venomous. He pushed himself off the wall and stood to attention.
The man who’d spoken was older and stood at Nathan’s six-foot-two eye level. He had dark brown hair with graying sideburns, a trimmed moustache, and a goatee. The tight black sweatshirt he wore outlined his broad shoulders and muscular physique, and an intense severity radiated from his every expression, movement, and even stillness.
Matthias, Lyla-Rose’s father.
Nathan’s elbows flared when he locked eyes with him, and he suppressed a scowl. He needed to pull himself together—maintain his “human detective” facade. Even so, he couldn’t help making some mental preparations in case the worst-case scenario arose.
He played out a few hypothetical escape plans to get Jude and himself out of this house, cataloguing the weapons he had on his person along with the ones he knew Jude carried. With their collective stash, there was a chance they could fight their way out against these two—three if he counted Mrs. Branstone. And in the end, if it turned out he needed to rely on his Diamantium blades, he would practice his truth speech to Jude later. Or at least a watered-down version of the truth. Assuming they both got out alive.
Matthias paused his response when Nathan walked into the room.
Jude looked up, following Matthias’s gaze over to Nathan. “Mr. Branstone, you remember Detective Delano?”
Matthias’s mouth curved into a grin, an expression that reminded Nathan of a shark right before it bit into its prey. “Of course, Detective Delano.” Matthias held out his hand. “It’s been a while since we’ve been acquainted.”
Nathan hesitated, then rebuked himself when Mr. Branstone’s shark grin deepened. He forced a smile and shook the man’s hand. “Yes, Mr. Branstone. It has been a while.”
“Please, call me Matthias.”
Nathan replied with a compliant nod.
Matthias’s grip tightened. His eye contact never faltered, nor did his smile.
Nathan’s elbows blazed with pain, the savage sensation increasing by the second. His jacket was in danger of being punctured. He fought against the urge to step in front of Jude and shield her from this man. Matthias would surely notice, not to mention Jude would probably shove him aside and question his weird behavior.
Nathan opened his mouth to speak, to tell Jude he’d received a phone call from the station and they were expected back, but Matthias spoke first.
“My wife tells me you’ve been sick, detective.”
“Oh, yes,” piped up Mrs. Branstone. “How are you feeling?” She crinkled her nose. “You don’t think you’ve caught a nasty bug, do you?”
“Of course not, ma’am.” Nathan smiled, relieved when Matthias took a step back to put an arm around his wife.
“Oh, good,” said Mrs. Branstone. “I’d hate to think you’d caught something to pass on to the rest of us.”
“No need to worry, dear,” said Matthias, patting her on the shoulder. “I’m sure whatever has the detective’s insides squirming is probably a very recent development.”
Her lips pursed. “Regardless, it still might be a good idea to disinfect the guest bathroom, just in case you are contagious.”
Matthias gave a close-mouthed chuckle. The intensity in his eyes gave Nathan a chest-tightening suspicion that Matthias knew exactly what he was. He recognized the undeniable look of greed hunters possessed when appraising their target. Matthias would know exactly how much he was worth dead and exactly who’d be willing to buy his Diamantium skeleton.
Nathan’s eyes roamed over Matthias in what he hoped was a casual manner. A gun holster was cinched at his waist, securing two handguns, one on each hip. He doubted they were the only arms on his person, hence the sweatshirt. Long sleeves were convenient for concealing many other weapons, ones specialized in slaying beings like himself.
Nathan kept a close eye on the man’s hands, his teeth gritted. Deciphering this man’s intentions would be so much easier if he could partially shift and use his forked tongue.
Matthias’s grin grew even wider, as if he knew what Nathan was thinking. Nathan restrained his desire to wipe that smug grin from the man’s face by any brutal means necessary.
Jude cleared her throat. “So, Nathan, just before you walked in, I was going through the details on their son’s stolen laptop.”
“Indeed,” said Matthias, “the matter that has brought us all together.” He gestured to the young blond man. “Come on over, boy. Detective, you recall my son, Sagan?”
Nathan had almost forgotten Sagan was still in the room. “Yes, of course,” he said, holding out his hand.
Sagan made no move to shake it.
Now that Sagan was standing beside his father, the similarities between the two were conspicuous. His eyes, nose, and cheekbones were a younger carbon copy of his father’s, and he too wore a black sweatshirt over a broad, muscular physique. The main difference was the eyes. Where Matthias’s were brown, Sagan’s were a striking pastel blue, and where Matthias’s held a glint of savage amusement, Sagan’s held pure poison.
Matthias put his hand around the back of Sagan’s neck. His fingertips turned white, and steel edged his next words. “Go on, son. Shake the good detective’s hand.”
Sagan’s jaw tensed as he dutifully shook Nathan’s hand once, then dropped it immediately.
Matthias gave a crooked smile and patted Sagan twice on the head. Nathan half expected the phrase “good boy” to follow.
With the unpleasant introductions over, Jude proceeded with her investigation.
Nathan folded his arms and tried to recall his interviews with the Branstone family, sifting through memories for anythin
g that would have alluded to their true identity, but his recollections had grown fuzzy over the last few years. As hard as he tried, he could only remember them as a grieving, broken family desperate to find out who’d killed their loved one, and why.
He caught Sagan’s scrutinizing glare. After a heartbeat, he passively assessed him as he had his father. A black chain was peeking above the neckline of Sagan’s sweatshirt, and the subtle outline of an amulet was visible beneath the fabric at his chest. Nathan flicked his attention to Matthias. He too had the same black chain and subtle impression of an amulet under his shirt.
Amulets were clan crests hunters received during their initiation. Each contained ten tiny vials embedded in the metal crest, one for each known species of shape-shifter. Hunter initiates used the vials to store a sample of luminescent blood from their first kill of each shifter species. The more colors in an amulet, the more revered the hunter.
Nathan had never encountered a hunter with all ten colors. The most he’d seen was five. A friend of his claimed to have seen an amulet with six.
He wondered how many colors were on Sagan’s amulet. And for that matter, what about Matthias’s? How many colors would a hunter need to be as arrogant as him?
“Oh, by the way . . .” Matthias turned his attention back to Nathan. “I’ve been wondering about that girl. What was her name?” He squinted and snapped his fingers a few times. “You know, the girl that was there when Lyla died.”
Nathan clenched his fists, and Sagan snapped his attention to his father.
“Oh, you mean Violet,” said Jude.
“Yes, Violet.” His grin broadened with triumph. “How is she these days?”
“Actually, she’s doing great, all things considered.”
“Marvelous.” Matthias’s eyes glittered, and Sagan’s glare faltered. “Thank you, detective, for all your help here today,” Matthias said to Jude.
She pocketed her phone. “We’ll give you a call as soon as we know anything.”
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