But that was too easy an explanation. Jefferson appeared to have a real propensity for violence. He had been sentenced to death by his pack because of his attempt to kill their leader. Then he’d gotten a taste for blood savagery when he’d raped and killed his first human victim.
Unrelated incidents? Or was there some connection between that earlier murder and the latest killings? The wolf pack leader had mentioned Jefferson was stirring up the half-bloods, trying to make trouble before viciously attacking him in Highbridge Park.
Could that attempted rebellion be behind the killings?
She shook her head, trying to find a logical link between the two, but nothing made sense. Jefferson’s behavior was too erratic, and the killings could only bring trouble to the shifters by threatening to expose them. Then again, that threat might force the leaders of the various were-factions to come after Jefferson. If they did, he might have devised a trap in order to kill them all and assume total control. She assumed that in the packs, that kind of cunning and strength would make Jefferson the undisputed alpha of the respective groups, along with anyone allied with him.
Turning away from the boards, she had one other thing to do before she returned to her desk and its lack of privacy. She missed her office with its orchids along the wall and view of the Narrows. Maybe in time she could work her way back to that kind of position.
In response to her moment of wistfulness, the baby kicked, almost as if to remind her that things might not ever be the same again. Which also prompted another thought.
She had to give Ryder a courtesy call. Although she dreaded it, expecting what his reaction would be to her announcement. Bracing herself, she hit speed-dial, and was grateful when the phone went to voice mail after a few rings.
She left the shortest message she could. “I’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up for me.”
Coward, the little voice in her head said as she ended the call.
But that was fine with her. Telling him the entire story would only result in a fight and recriminations, neither of which would help her focus on this and the other cases waiting for her review.
With that, she returned to her desk and got to work, ignoring the nervous anticipation in her gut, as well as the growing shadow of weakness that built within her as the day grew long.
Just pregnancy-related tiredness, she told herself. But the little voice in her head once again quickly called it like it was.
Liar.
…
Dark of the Moon was not far from either the Blood Bank or The Lair, the local vampire hangouts. It made Diana wonder how none of the undead had mentioned the club before. Then again, the vampires and shifters didn’t play well together. Why would they?
Much like the exterior of the Blood Bank, the look of Dark of the Moon from the outside warned this was not a place for neophytes looking to play at being hard-asses. The tall, shadowed brick building was painted a dull charcoal gray and peeling in spots, exposing the weathered red of the wall beneath. A rash of gouges in the walls, bullet holes if she had to guess, exposed even more of the red brick. It almost looked as if the building was bleeding, adding to its threatening appearance. There were a few windows along the front with the requisite fire escape, which was painted in that same indeterminate gray.
Lounging against those bleeding walls were a dozen or more men and women, mostly dressed in leather and chains, with expressions on their faces that warned they were looking for trouble.
Two petite, but powerfully built bodyguards manned the front door. The door seemed to have been taken off some kind of boat—the battleship-gray metal boasted rivets and scars, including rusty-edged bullet holes. The heavy latch to the door was open, but the demeanor of the bouncers was opposite. Clearly, not everyone was welcome at this establishment.
As Diana, Maggie, and David approached the entrance, the heavily muscled and tattooed duo closed ranks to bar their entry.
Beady near-black eyes, glassy and dead-looking, skimmed over them before one man sneered, “Your kind is not welcome here.” His high-pitched voice was just shy of a squeal, and his thin face with its long nose and overbite reminded her of a ferret.
“Brendon asked us to meet him here,” she replied, and drew aside her suit jacket to display her badge and gun.
The two bouncers exchanged whispered squeals, then one of them scurried inside—she presumed to confirm the invitation.
“Nice place,” David said facetiously, eyeing the building. As she tracked his gaze, she noticed the windows were covered in some kind of film, hiding what was going on inside.
David was using his crutches, and even with his slight hunch he was still nearly a foot taller than the ferret-faced bouncer who was barely Diana’s height.
When Maggie took a spot beside the little man, a sly look crept into his brown-black eyes. “You’re one of us, or will be soon,” he said, and his gaze took a turn, becoming decidedly sexual as he raked it down Maggie’s voluptuous figure.
Maggie glared at him, leaned forward, and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of him. “Rodent?”
“Wolf bitch,” he countered, and took a menacing step toward her, but David blocked his way.
Before the small shifter could engage, the door opened with a solid thunk, revealing Rafe and Brendon just inside.
“Is there a problem here, Weasel?” Brendon asked, hands on his hips in a pose that made him loom over the skinny shifter. Tonight he had on a leather bomber jacket that only served to emphasize his large size.
Weasel skittered backward, eyes downcast. “No problem.”
Brendon stepped forward and acknowledged Diana with a regal bow of his head. “Special Agent Reyes.”
After a greeting, she introduced him to her partners. “Special Agent David Harris, and Dr. Maggie Gonzalez, our forensics expert.”
Brendon’s eyes gleamed with undeniable, but asexual, interest as he studied Maggie. “Welcome to the pack, Maggie. We can always use someone as strong as you in our group,” he said, making Diana wonder about his earlier statements that half-bloods were generally not welcomed. Though the pack leader had certainly seemed to take Rafe in without much objection, and now, possibly Maggie.
His gaze flicked negligently to David, lingering for a moment on the crutches before meeting David’s perturbed gaze. Her teammate clearly had not liked Brendon’s invitation to Maggie.
“It takes a strong man to come here as you are,” Brendon said.
David straightened as much as the crutches would allow and leaned headfirst until he was face to face with the pack leader. “Do you have a problem with me?”
Brendon threw his head back and his full-chested laugh did little to calm David’s anger. But then he smiled, a devastatingly masculine smile, and his green eyes gleamed with humor. “Hell, I got a problem with that suit, Harris. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb. And so are you two ladies.”
Now that Diana had a longer moment to observe, she realized all of the men, even Rafe, wore tight-fitting and/or sleeveless shirts that showed off their powerful physiques. Obviously a show of physical strength commanded respect in the club.
“What do you propose we do about that?” David asked, beating her to the question.
“Ladies, take off the suit jackets and show those weapons. Hot chicks with guns are never a problem in the club, although the belly will raise some eyebrows,” Brendon said, glancing at her noticeable baby bump. “As for you, Harris, lose the jacket and shirt. If you’ve got other scars besides those—” he motioned to David’s legs—“show them. We honor our warriors here.”
The sincerity in those words was irrefutable, and immediately calmed her partner. With Maggie’s assistance, David pulled off his suit jacket and worked off his shirt, leaving his shoulder holster and his very big Sig Sauer. The fitted tank top undershirt he wore showed off the well-developed muscles of his shoulders and chest, as well as the burn and shrapnel scars along one side of his body.
Diana fli
nched inwardly at the sight of the scars he would always have from the night of the raid. He’d been bandaged when she saw him in the hospital afterward, and he had never revealed his injuries to her. As his gaze collided with hers, he jerked his head up in challenge. She just smiled.
“May I?” Brendon asked Maggie, who handed over David’s clothes along with their suit jackets.
Brendon tossed them at Weasel. “Watch these until we’re done.”
Without waiting for a reply, Brendon pivoted and strode back into the club, leaving Rafe at the door to wait for them. After they went in, the firefighter took up a position behind them to cover their backs.
As they walked past the various tables inside the club, people peered at them suspiciously, tiny dark eyes gleaming in the dim light and sharp noses twitching as the shifters took the measure of them.
“Weasel seemed eager to please you,” Diana remarked to Brendon. “I thought you said the weres—”
“Don’t get along?” He snorted. “Weasel is like his name. He’ll side with whoever he thinks has the power.”
She peered around at the twitchy club patrons as the pack leader continued to a stairway at the far end of the building. “I guess he sees you as the lead dog?”
Brendon gave a low warning snarl. “Wolf. Not dog, Special Agent Reyes. Don’t forget that.”
She chuckled at the teasing undertone in his words. “I’ll try not to. Mind giving me a clue where we’re going?”
“Rooftop lounge. Premiere spot since it’s closest to the moon,” he said, and at that, she glanced back at David, worried whether he could make it up two more flights.
He moved slowly, cautiously, creating an ever-widening gap between Brendon and Rafe, but his jaw was clenched with determination. She prayed his physical condition was as strong as the spirit that had reawakened in him. He was slowly becoming the David of old. Possibly even stronger than before.
At the next set of stairs, Brendon looked back and slowed his pace, mindful of David. His gaze touched on Maggie, and then skipped to Diana for a moment. He whispered for her ears only, “You’re lucky to have friends who follow you without question.”
“I am,” she acknowledged, well aware she could count on Maggie and David in any situation.
“It speaks to your leadership,” he murmured before resuming the slow climb to the upper level.
When he stepped aside at the top of the stairs, she got her first glimpse of the rooftop terrace. A large glass-enclosed structure occupied the center of the space, while generous walkways all around were laid with grass and landscaped in between with plants, bushes, and scrubby pine trees. It reminded her of Ryder’s oversized balcony with all its flowering plants. And made her wonder at the otherworld’s need for such spaces in a concrete jungle like New York.
Then again, the weres were creatures of nature. The greenery made sense, and the rooftop terrace definitely had the feel of the outdoors with all its lush vegetation below and the sky above.
At the entrance to the glass enclosure, another two petite soldiers guarded the entrance and opened the doors as Brendon approached. He went inside and strode to a large hand-hewn oak table in the center where four other individuals waited.
The first was another slight, but heavily muscled man who stood next to an even smaller woman. They both had cocoa-gray hair and brown-black eyes. As the man put one thick arm over the woman’s shoulders, it was clear they were a couple.
“Francis and Margaret rule the were-rats in the city,” Brendon said, and introduced the FBI contingent.
“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” Diana said as she shook their hands. Afterward, they quickly pulled back and Francis whined in a high-pitched voice, “You’ve got the feel of the undead about you.”
“I’m human, but my husband is not,” she admitted, needing these people to trust her so they’d help track down the killer.
Brendon moved to the next were, a stunning mixed-race man of average height, but with a lean, powerful build. He had sharp features and a golden-eyed gaze that flitted from one to the other, hyper-vigilant.
“Baxter, chief were-eagle,” Brendon introduced, and Diana and her group shook his hand.
The last person was a handsome black woman with cinnamon-colored, close-cropped hair, and a look much like Baxter’s. It came as no surprise when Brendon presented her as Monisha, head of the were-falcons.
As they took their places at the table, it was painfully clear it was the weres against Diana’s group and Rafe, the outsiders.
She sat, and David took the spot beside her. As his arm grazed hers, it was wet with sweat chilled by the brief outdoor walk to the enclosure. She shot him a worried look and noted the perspiration glistening on his body and marking the edges of his undershirt. The climb up the two flights must have taxed him to the max, but nothing about his demeanor showed any hint of weakness.
This was the David of old, rising above adversity. Relief swept through her. Although he was generally laid back, she had always been able to count on his strength of mind and body when needed.
Tonight would be no different.
Maggie sat beside him, and to her right was Rafe. Although Diana hadn’t known him long, she knew instinctively she could rely on the firefighter, as well.
But she couldn’t avoid seeing the heated glances he shot at Maggie… nor the way her friend deliberately avoided looking back at him.
Which might explain David’s determination to be strong.
Regardless, they were all here for a reason, and it was time to bring their needs to the table.
Diana looked around at each person sitting at the table. “The FBI suspects a shifter in a number of murders that have occurred over the past two months.”
“Brendon has told us of your concerns. Jefferson has been in and around this area,” said Francis, the were-rat.
“We’ve spotted him in the park, but that’s not unusual for a werewolf,” Baxter said after checking in with his falcon counterpart.
“The park is neutral ground for all the weres, although we eagles and falcons consider it our home,” Monisha said in imperious tones.
“It seems you’re all familiar with Brad Jefferson. What was it about him that first grabbed your attention?” David asked, falling into the familiar questioning pattern he and Diana had used as partners.
The five others exchanged worried glances, then Brendon spoke. “Most were not aware of Jefferson’s attempt on my life and the death sentence we imposed. Those kinds of issues are generally kept private.”
“But you all had your eyes on him, I’m gathering,” David said, and shot Diana a look, tagging her to continue the questioning.
“Rumors started circulating about dissatisfaction amongst the half-bloods. Someone was stirring up trouble, trying to incite them against the were-leaders,” Margaret said cautiously. “We were-rats are open-minded, but no half-blood has ever possessed the necessary attributes to assume leadership of the clan.”
“By attributes I assume you mean physical prowess?” Diana asked.
“It’s about more than power. It’s about controlling how you use it. Behaving responsibly for the good of the pack. Not an easy thing when you have as many members as we do,” Margaret’s husband, Francis, clarified.
Maggie jumped in. “And you believe Jefferson was fomenting this unrest?”
“We believe so, but can’t prove it. However, we have seen Jefferson down in the tunnels—an unusual place for a werewolf,” Francis said.
“He’s spent a lot of time in the park lately, in both human and were-form,” said Baxter, the were-eagle.
Monisha nodded in agreement. “He was there the night of the killing. The smell of blood pulled us from our nest,” she said, and risked a peek at Rafe. “You were there, too. I can tell from your scent.”
“Would you be willing to testify to that?” Maggie asked.
A disconcerting series of squeals and squawks of laughter arose, although the alpha
wolf contained his amusement. He laid a kind hand on hers to soothe the sting of their reaction. “Jefferson will never face trial, Maggie. We take care of people like him on our own.”
David’s eyes narrowed. “We can’t sanction that kind of behavior,” he said, taking the lead before Diana erupted in anger.
“We didn’t ask your permission,” Baxter replied in a frighteningly cold tone.
“Are you implying this is going to be a question of who finds Jefferson first?” she asked with barely controlled calm.
The five leaders shared another grim look. Baxter leaned back in his chair. “As I said. We take care of our own problems.”
Chapter Twenty-three
David paused at the top of the stairs, grimacing down at the long series of steps to reach the ground floor. It had taken more endurance than he’d thought to make the climb to the rooftop enclosure. He wasn’t sure he could manage the descent on his own, but he was loath to display weakness in front of the were-leaders. Thankfully, most had already departed after the were-eagle’s pronouncement. That had pretty much halted any further discussion.
With a sly smile, as if to say they’d won the night, the were-rat couple had scampered down the stairs after the avian weres. Rafe had followed Brendon when the alpha had given him a come-with-me look, leaving just the humans on the terrace.
“I’ll go first,” he said, and at Diana’s protest, he said sardonically, “If I fall, I don’t want to take you down with me in your condition.”
“Let me help,” Maggie offered, and slipped next to him. “Put your arm around my shoulders.”
He was about to argue when Diana slashed her hand through the air with annoyance. “Don’t, David. We need you on this case, so please don’t be as pridefully stupid as those damn weres.”
He bit his tongue and did as Maggie asked, but said, “Actually, I got the sense that Brendon wasn’t fully onboard with their decision. Maybe because he’s been on the receiving end of Jefferson’s duplicity.”
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