He blinked at her, and if anyone else had had dark circles like that, she would assume they were getting no sleep. But Gomph’s eyes always looked like that. “That’s a lot to take on, Ms. Garsea.”
“I’ll help, Your Honor,” David replied, and Annette did her best not to look astonished. Damn. I was fool enough to forget he was there for a moment. And what’s this? Volunteering? That might be something to think about. David tended to stick to the job description, which in this case was bringing in Caro and Dev. Normally, he would have been long gone by now.
“I myself will not,” Nadia announced, to the shock of precisely no one. “However, I’ll continue to be Ms. Garsea’s in-house liaison and research assistant, around the clock if it proves necessary. With all respect to Young Master Devoss, I wouldn’t take on full responsibility for him under any circumstances. Well”—Nadia’s gaze went to the ceiling as she pondered—“perhaps if I lost a bet.”
“That’s respectful?” Dev yelped. At Nadia’s look, he added, “Okay, well. Fair.”
“I’m considering it,” the judge replied between bites of spinach, kale, cabbage, and romaine. Annette’s stomach rumbled. Dump a pound of grilled shrimp on that with some oil and vinegar, maybe some roasted garlic cloves, and a roll warm from the oven… Now that was a meal. “Mr. Devoss, is there anything you’d like to tell the court?”
The kit, taken off guard, lurched to his feet. “Um. Just that I’ll listen to Annette and I don’t mind staying with her and I’ll do everything she says, Judge.”
Gomph studied him with small, kind eyes. “You understand that your reputation got here before you did, lad?”
“Viam bonam famam habere cupis esse Studeat apparere.”
“Brilliant, but lazy,” the judge quoted back.
Dev let out a happy gasp. “Was that a Peter Parker reference?”
“No, that was an Otto Octavius reference.” To Annette: “This isn’t the first time you’ve moved to take action that under most circumstances would be considered out of your purview.”
“No, sir, it is not.” Was the judge referring to the seal smuggling ring, or the werehyena riot? Or the birthday fiasco? Or the other birthday fiasco? She resisted the urge to ask for clarification. Details would not make her case.
“But if memory serves—and mine always does—you have consistently held up your end. I am remanding Mr. Devoss to your custody for a period of seventy-two hours, at which time you will again come before the court to explain his status, Ms. Daniels’s status, what you have found, and how you wish to proceed. Then I’ll explain how we will proceed. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Devoss?”
Dev, who had been gaping at Annette with the air of a boy who couldn’t believe what was happening, wrenched his gaze back to the bench. “Yes, Judge?”
“If you elude Ms. Garsea’s custody, the consequences will be severe.”
“Yes, sir, I get it. Straight to holding, do not pass Go.”
“For her,” Gomph clarified. “Your actions will have a direct impact on her career, among other things. It’s in everyone’s best interest for that impact to be positive.”
“I’d never ditch Net,” the boy declared. “Not like Nadia.”
“Hush, you wretch.”
He ignored Nadia’s irritated squawk. “Not even if I lost a bet.”
“Very well.”
And that was that.
Chapter 8
Except that wasn’t that.
“The video feeds all went down. Each and every one.”
“Yeah.”
“At the same time.”
“Yes.”
Taryn had been a big help, making use of her contacts to help Nadia pull whatever feeds she needed ASAP. Under ordinary circumstances, that could have taken at least a day. And if nothing else, the near-miss proved once and for all that the parking-garage security was overdue for an upgrade.
Among other changes, new cameras would be installed to take pictures of the license plate of every car that went in and out. Annette had been astonished such an upgrade was necessary, then astonished she’d been astonished. As with any regulated agency, there were ten places to put every dollar.
“And during that ninety-second blackout window,” Annette continued, “someone let Caro out. Or she let herself out.”
David fidgeted in the passenger seat. “Looks like.”
“I know why you’re both looking at me, and you can quit it right now. It wasn’t me,” Dev declared from the back seat. “Besides, didn’t the blackout window open while we were in the parking garage? You said yourself you weren’t gonna let me out of your sight. And you didn’t. Y’know, after the, um, break-room thing.”
All this while Annette was taking them up the driveway to her house. The hearing had been two hours ago, during which time David had determined the feeds weren’t going to be any help and they verified that the silently elusive Caro wasn’t anywhere on the premises.
“Dev, do you at least know why she left? Or where she would have gone?”
“No, non, nein. Maybe she remembered that she didn’t do anything wrong and that self-defense is legal? So why stick around? That’s why I would’ve left.” Annette felt a thump as he kicked the back of her seat for emphasis.
“Or someone let her go,” David pointed out.
Exactly what Annette was afraid of. “I really, really hope that’s not true,” she fretted. She could hear the steering wheel start to creak and forced herself to loosen her grip. “It would mean someone on the inside—one of us—is protecting her, or protecting Lund, or something even more sinister is going on, something we haven’t yet tumbled to, and I don’t like it, I don’t like any of it.”
“Nobody had to let me out,” Dev put in. “I’ll bet she let herself out. Your restraints are a joke.”
“Possibly. Your amorality and skinny wrists might also be factors in play. I guess we’ll just have to ask Caro when we find her.”
David snorted. “Good luck.”
“But don’t the bad guys in the car have to be someone on the inside?” Dev asked. “It’s not like a Stable can just roll in from Sixth Street and randomly try to run over a trio of Shifters.”
Also what she was afraid of. Because of course Dev was right. No one got onto those levels by accident. Ever. And the parking-garage feeds didn’t help. They showed the assault-via-vehicle attempt (and David moving faster than thought to knock her clear), but the car was nondescript and had blacked-out windows. Minnesota plates, black SUV, but the angle was bad and no one could read the plate number. If she were to bet—and she never bet—she’d guess it was a rental. If they could find it, they could follow a paper trail.
But first things first. She’d parked just outside her garage and was headed up the wide sidewalk to the broad expense of gray steps. “One problem at a time, gents. Come on.”
“Holy crap. So being a caseworker is super lucrative, I guess.”
“No, Dev. Do not go into this line of work if staggering wealth is your goal. My folks left me some money after they were killed, which I used for this. My roommate helped with the renovations. McMansion house, Walmart wardrobe.”
“I remember!” Dev, who had been trotting at her heels, skipped ahead of her and David and was walking backward while he chattered. “The first time you caught me, you got me to come with you by saying you were in the system, too, when you were a kid.”
“The first, second, and third time I caught you,” she pointed out while David stifled a snort.
“What… I mean, it’s none of my biz, but what happened to your folks? You don’t have to say if you don’t want,” he added hastily.
“They were killed just outside Yosemite.”
“Oh. Sorry. Poachers?” Dev hopped over one of the planters lining the walk without looking.
“Stables who didn’t know the difference between you guys and wild bears?”
“No. Car accident.”
Dev giggled, then clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Smooth,” David said, and looked amused when Annette poked him in the bicep. “Don’t feel bad, kid. She gets that a lot.”
“Sorry! I’m sorry. I’m not laughing ’cuz your folks died. I wouldn’t laugh about that. It’s—”
She smiled down at him as she opened the door and ushered them inside, past the foyer and living area. “I understand. It’s what everyone assumes. No one expects the mundane explanation.” Then, as her unholy trio entered the kitchen: “Pat, this is my ward pro tem, Dev Devoss, and David Auberon, one of our investigators. Dev, David, this is my roommate, Pat.”
Frozen in the act of juicing what appeared to be a thousand oranges, Pat just stared at them. He’d changed out of his earlier clothing and was now in overalls and lipstick. And mascara, Annette decided after a closer look. It was criminal how men were so often blessed with long lashes. Especially men with blue eyes. Wait. Pat had hazel eyes; David had blue eyes. Why am I thinking about David’s eyes?
Pat’s straight blond hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and he smelled like an orange grove, which was pretty wonderful. “Huh,” he said after a long moment. “Welcome.” To Annette: “I got excited for a second. Thought you might have a date.”
“Pretty weird date,” Dev commented, looking askance at David.
“Agreed,” David replied. “Not to mention major-league illegal.”
Annette managed to keep the aggrieved shriek behind her teeth. “This is not a date. David and I are not dating.”
“Uh-huh.” Then: “The Dev Devoss?” Pat grinned. “You’re famous around here. I never thought I’d get to meet you.”
“I am?” Delighted, he turned to Annette. “You talk about me at home?”
“I have nightmares about you at home.”
“I dunno how to feel about that,” the boy confessed.
“Well, ponder. Now, as I was explaining, they’re going to be staying… Wait.” She turned to David. “You don’t have to stay here, you know.”
“Disagree. People are trying to run you over.”
“Again?” Pat yelped.
Annette ignored the interruption. “People are also trying to run you over.”
David shrugged off the attempted vehicular homicide on his person. “And Devoss is gonna be a handful.”
“A handful of sunshine, you bet!” Dev said with what he probably thought was a winning smile but mostly just showed his teeth.
“Anyway. Pat. It’s only for a couple of days, and I’m sorry about the inconve—”
“I don’t give a shit about the inconvenience. This is your house, and you can host the Timberwolves if you want, but who the hell tried to run you over?”
“That’s the question.”
“You didn’t lose another bet, did you?” Pat asked.
“No, thank goodness.”
Meanwhile, Dev had inched closer until the only thing separating him from Pat was the kitchen island, nostrils flaring as he feigned interest in all the orange carcasses. Pat enjoyed watching the boy’s confusion for a few seconds, then said, “Help you with something?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
“Reeeeeeally?”
“Pat,” she warned. She was fond of her eccentric roommate, but he did like to play with his food.
“It’s just, uh, your scent.”
Pat leaned in, blinking long eyelashes. “Yessssss? You think it’s offensive?”
“No! No, I just can’t figure it out is all,” Dev confessed.
“Which makes you nervous.”
“No.” He paused and considered. “Kinda.”
“No surprise. It makes adults nervous, too.”
“Is that why you… Never mind. It’s nobody’s business.”
She had to give Dev credit. She had never known the kit to deny himself a question before, even if it would land him in considerable difficulty.
Pat took pity on the deeply curious creature and replied, “Let’s just say that today I’m feeling more masculine than feminine. Say about 85/15.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“That’s all right.”
“How’d your interview go?” Annette was rooting through the fridge; in all the excitement, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Note: go grocery shopping, dammit!
“They’ll let me know, blah-blah. In the meantime…” He produced seed packets from his overall pockets and waved them at her. “I’ve taken up organic gardening.”
“But it’s September.”
“Don’t try to restrain my ambitions, Annette!”
“Sorry, sorry.” To Dev: “Sandwich? Leftover stir-fry? Leftover meat loaf? Leftover—no, that’s far too old. I can’t even remember when we had spaghetti. Perhaps a gallon of freshly squeezed orange juice? And David, I’m sorry to report we’re out of Skittles and Starburst. I can’t think how I let this happen.”
“I’m good.” He was staring at the litter of oranges, shaking his head and smiling. “You are juicing like a motherfucker.”
“Oh, is that what I’m doing?”
David turned to Annette. “Listen, I’d like to walk your perimeter—”
“Romantic!”
“Shush.” Bad enough the thought of him sleeping in her house was making her knees tremble. Worse knowing how easy it would be to show him to the guest room and then, er, initiate things. Because this was the worst time in the world to be thinking of her sexual dry spell. Her charges were in danger. David was here in a professional capacity and would not appreciate being molested. So this was no time for Pat to indulge in his shipping tendencies. But before she could elaborate—poor David was probably already ruing his impulse to remain—she heard a buzz and David turned away as he fished his phone out. “You understand that the matchmaking-roommate cliché is beyond tired, right?”
“How dare you call me a cliché. I’m a trope.”
“Is that like a trout?” she asked. “Or tripe?”
“I won’t dignify that with an answer, you harpy.” To Dev: “Drink this juice.”
“I dunno,” the kit replied. “Are you sure there’s enough?”
“I like him,” Pat announced. “Let’s keep him.”
“He’s not a stray, Pat. We can’t just keep him.”
“Yes I am!”
Before she could reply, David put his phone away and turned back to them. When she saw his expression, she groaned. “What? What troubling, terrible strange thing has happened now?”
“Lund’s dead.”
There was a silence while she digested the news. “Well, shit,” she managed.
“Have some juice,” Pat suggested. “You’ll feel better.”
Chapter 9
Never, obviously.
“I’d like to shift and take a look around. You mind?” David asked.
Drop it, will you?
Annette looked up from her grocery list, which looked long enough to be a Wiki entry. “Of course not. There’s a set of sliding doors on the lower level that lead to twenty-four acres of private land and the St. Croix River.”
“And if you go the other way, you’ll find a Dairy Queen Grill & Chill,” Pat added.
“Thanks.”
Never, obviously.
Well, that was plain enough.
Just as well, his dead mother whispered. You could only bring her pain. He would have told his dead mom to shut it, except she was right. Blunt, as in life, but correct. Still. He wouldn’t deny the sting.
He left the kitchen and headed through Annette’s big, pretty house, intent on the lower level. He hadn’t shifted in weeks—contrary to fiction, changing was mostly a matter of persona
l choice, not an irresistible paralogical imperative dictated by the lunar cycle—and he was itching for it. The Caro case was getting more fucked by the hour, and being in close proximity with Annette was distracting in all the worst ways. Which was made worse by her devastating yet honest comments to Nadia.
Never, obviously.
about the possibility of their…dating.
Drop it, will you?
Or sport fucking. Or whatever Annette wanted to do. He would’ve been on board with any of it.
Drop it.
There was no escaping her ripe fruit/clean cotton scent; he was surrounded by it. By contrast, the roommate’s scent was barely noticeable.
The roommate. He couldn’t blame the kit for being curious. The guy who took up farming (but just today, apparently) was like water: not much of a scent and it held whatever shape you dumped it in, or in Pat’s case, whatever shape you felt like. And the scar was impressive, because it didn’t matter how fast Shifter metabolism ran, some injuries left permanent reminders.
In Pat’s case, he couldn’t completely hide the seven-inch mark that started at the forehead, slashed down, narrowly missed his eye, and ended halfway down his cheek. Deep, too. David couldn’t imagine the fight that had caused it.
Whatever the cause and whoever the assailant, it had been deeply personal; they’d gone for the face, not the throat, which was smooth and unmarked. And Pat kept the rest of himself covered, so no telling how extensive any other scars might be.
But David couldn’t worry about that now. Lund was unhelpful, and then he was dead. Caro was in custody, and then she wasn’t. Someone tried to kill the three of them. Or just Dev. (Which was worse.) And Annette had zero interest in him as anything but a work colleague. And he wasn’t even that, really; he didn’t work for IPA. He was an independent contractor; IPA was just one of his clients.
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