Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  "I can."

  Bastian stood. "Learn the hard way. Don't come back, Mal. I've said all I'm going to say to you."

  She slammed the receiver into its cradle. Wiping her palms against her jeans, she turned away from the Plexiglas, her skin tight and uncomfortable.

  Long strides took her away from taunt and threat and possible truth. Outside she pulled her phone from a pocket, rolled it in her hand as she walked.

  She stopped with the Jeep in sight and scrolled to an LAPD direct line. Bastian was wrong. The things she did mattered, they'd keep her from becoming a cold-blooded killer.

  Detective Nathan Davidson answered and she asked, "Need me for anything?"

  His laugh was more tire going flat than amusement. "Ever thought about taking a vacation?"

  "Can't afford to right now. But I have some time to hunt."

  Quiet filled the line where once it wouldn't have, fallout from being so obviously related to Bastian. Her hand tightened on the phone. A Hound's hearing allowed her to pick up the muted tap tap tap of fingers drumming on a paper-covered desk.

  Wariness had crept into the eyes and scent of more than one of the cops she'd dealt with on a regular basis. They knew her history. They knew about the missing years, though not where she spent them. And now at least some of them knew of her connection to Bastian.

  A soft sigh preceded Nathan's lowered voice. "I've got a runaway you can look for. Not my case, but I'm willing to go out on a limb."

  "I'll be there in a few."

  "No hurry."

  She pocketed the phone. Her right hand went to her left upper arm. Her palm rubbed over the ridges and scar tissue beneath the shirt sleeve as if she could force the skin to become smooth, unblemished.

  You can't outrun what you are, what he means for you to be, Bastian's voice taunted.

  "I can. I will," she whispered, lengthening her strides and getting to the Jeep, heat shimmering off concrete and asphalt in rippling waves.

  Habit had her reaching beneath the seat, fingertips brushing the 9 mm and switchblade.

  Dane's low growl expressed his disgruntlement at the seeming lack of confidence in his ability to guard the weapons.

  She laughed, her mood lightening.

  He growled again when they approached Nathan's station house. This time she ignored it.

  A call brought Nathan out to collect her. His slight frame always made her feel like an Amazon. His loosened tie and sweat-stained underarms made her aware of her dry skin.

  "Come on back," he said, eyes cataloging her appearance, lingering on her injured forearm. "The dog?"

  Was gossip already making the rounds about the slice on Henderson's neck and the piss on his jeans?

  "Hazard of the job."

  The mix of body washes, perfumes and burned coffee clogged her throat and made her struggle against sneezing.

  Folders covered Nathan's desk. He pulled a sheet of paper from one of them, handing it to her. The girl pictured on it was blonde, blue-eyed. The resemblance to Sorcha sent unexpected uneasiness sizzling down Mallory's spine like acid dripped on steel.

  "You recognize her?"

  "No. Made me think of my sister, that's all."

  Mallory read the details—Amanda Edson. Fourteen, not Sorcha's eleven, but she could pass for it. Under identifying marks, a flower tattoo at the base of the spine was listed. On the original copy, someone had scribbled a note: described as garish, probably looks more tramp stamp than art.

  "Aunt was the one to report her as a runaway," Nathan said, "not the mother. Addresses for both are on the back."

  The light drum of his fingers had Mallory meeting his eyes. "But they're off limits?"

  "Like I told you on the phone, this isn't my case."

  She left the yes, they're off limits to you, implied.

  "Reason for running?"

  "When the mother finally got around to responding to inquiries, she said the girl has been out of control and playing with drugs since she was eleven."

  "Any leads?"

  "Not that haven't been checked out."

  Mallory folded the picture and slipped it into a shirt pocket.

  Nathan walked her back to reception.

  At the door she asked, "You have any contacts in San Pedro?"

  "Police or other?"

  "Someone who could put some pressure on a building owner. I came across an old man and old woman in a bad way, having to use the steps to get to the third floor because the elevator was down and has been, sounded like for a while."

  "Text me the address. I'll make a couple of phone calls."

  "Thanks."

  She texted it on the way to the Jeep.

  Dane's bulk was crammed into the front passenger seat with spillover into the driver's. His gaze followed his nose to Nathan's scent on the flier in her pocket.

  "Move and I'll show it to you."

  He climbed into the back, circled and draped his neck over the seat.

  She tugged the flier out and unfolded it.

  His low whine said he saw the resemblance to Sorcha. His growl said he'd kill to defend a kid whose only relation to him was through her.

  Mallory's throat tightened. Guilt crept in at not being willing to summon their sire in order to free Dane from fur. And Bastian's mocking taunts about good deeds and family and Dane gnawed and shredded and stripped at her insides like Hounds on a carcass.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2

  Hunter Larsen's office smelled of stale air conditioning and the desperate, scared scent of bond clients. Reaching the counter, Mallory tugged the custody receipt out of her pocket while Dane put front paws on brown laminate.

  "Henderson?" June guessed, pulling a checkbook out of a desk drawer, the yellow-and-green head scarf making her black skin appear more ashen.

  "Henderson," Mallory confirmed. Of the three she was hunting for Larsen, he was the most valuable.

  June left her desk, bringing the stink of cancer to the counter.

  Mallory's throat closed. Dane whimpered.

  June smiled at him. "I haven't forgotten you."

  She set the checkbook down, revealing that she'd also retrieved a bone-shaped cookie from the desk drawer.

  Dane sniffed, snatched, crunched and swallowed.

  "Made short work of that one, didn't you?"

  A bark and he dropped to the floor

  June huffed. "Typical male. Only interested when you're putting out."

  Mallory laughed. "You feeling okay?"

  "Good days and bad." June took the receipt and wrote a check. "Here you go."

  Mallory pocketed it, grateful. It wasn't always a cash-on-delivery business, but Hunter made an exception for them. "He here?"

  "Not only here," Hunter's voice boomed, "but I got one worth enough to replace your Jeep."

  Dane's head snapped up, nose leaving the crack between couch cushions.

  He beat her to Hunter's doorway.

  Hunter stood behind his desk, a short, round man who'd have a heart attack if he chased one of his skips.

  She took the offered file. There were four more just like it on the desk.

  Hunter sat, air whooshing through a crack in shiny beige leather. "This one's not yours exclusively, but I can give you an edge. Jeffery Carlisle, embezzler. Smart enough to steal a tad over nine hundred thousand. Stupid enough to convert a chunk of it into assets that could be seized. Left his old granny in the lurch after she put up her house for the bond."

  "You think he's still in town?"

  "Probably. Sees himself as rubbing shoulders with the A-listers and Hollywood moneymen. Doesn't realize they think he's a valet who's come in to use the toilet."

  "And the edge you're giving me?"

  He opened the top drawer and pulled out a gold-embossed invitation. It smelled as expensive as it looked. "Used to date a girl whose family is hosting a party tonight up on Mulholland. This will get you in the door."

  Mallory reached for the envelope, held it without
taking it from him. "No promises."

  He shrugged, releasing his grip on the heavy invitation. "Fifty-fifty shot he's there. If he is, you have a hell of a lot better chance of getting him outside and into your car without creating a scene than anyone, myself included. A scene should not be created, Mal."

  "Got it. No scene."

  She tucked the invitation into the folder.

  Jovial slipped off Hunter's face like water off a turtle's shell. The chair leather squeaked and his fingers worried the corners on the stack of remaining Carlisle files. His gaze skittered to her injured arm, to Dane, and back to her.

  "Mal, look, you know you're one of the best, you and Dane—the human Dane. But the dog's a liability. Henderson's doing all kinds of complaining. Lucky for me, he's got a lazy public defender and Henderson fronted the money for his own bond so there's no family involved. But you and I both know juries can go nutso when it comes to dog attacks. Total slime wads can walk away with hundreds of thousands, millions even, if they get the right jury. You get what I'm saying here?"

  "I hear you."

  He picked up the files, unnecessarily straightening them. "Hearing me isn't good enough. I don't need legal hassle and I don't need my insurance rates going through the roof. I can't call you if you're going to keep using the dog. So tell me you're doing something about getting someone to fill in for Dane while he's MIA."

  A fluttering preceded the tight clamp of a fist around Mallory's heart. The majority of her income came from Hunter.

  "I've put the word out that I'm looking for someone."

  He rocked back in his chair. "Good. Good."

  Not even close. Not unless she caught Carlisle for a cash windfall.

  She and Dane left and went home.

  Inside the apartment, she made a quick detour into the kitchen to drop the charm into salt water to preserve what was left of the protection magic.

  The gun went into the bedroom safe. The knife into a bedside drawer.

  Weapons didn't belong in her mother's house. Mostly she thought she didn't either. But for a little while, she could pretend.

  She peeled off the bandages, got in the shower, her arm throbbing.

  What was she going to do about Dane?

  What could she do about him?

  Summon our sire. Take my place and find out.

  No. Not that.

  And the throb in her arm became centered in her heart.

  Even for Dane, she couldn't bring herself to willingly interact with their sire, not when she wanted to forget he existed, wanted to forget those years spent in his realm and what she'd experienced there.

  Black jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt, shove her feet into tennis shoes and pull her hair into a ponytail and she was ready to go.

  Dane waited next to the open refrigerator. Gouges marked the times he'd gotten impatient when it came to dealing with the door. The crushed handle was a demonstration of how many pounds of pressure were in his bite.

  Not that she needed it.

  He focused on the bottom shelf and the empty bowl stashed there.

  She popped open a Bud and poured it with minimal foam.

  His lip curled in a silent demand for a second.

  She tossed the first empty into the sink and did the same with the next.

  He rose onto hind legs, rooted until his nose was pressed against Thai leftovers.

  "You want them warmed?"

  A head-shake said cold worked for him.

  She dumped the contents of all three take-out containers in a salad plate and carried it into the living room, setting it on the coffee table alongside the cold beer then hitting the remote.

  The screen came to life on a ball game. "I'm gone," she said, throb in her heart migrating up her throat and spreading into an ache along her jaw.

  He was already absorbed in the game. Or pretending to be.

  They both knew she couldn't risk taking him to Austin's birthday party, not when there were going to be clowns.

  She left the apartment and got in the Jeep.

  One of these days their sire would return and tear her life apart.

  She'd been lucky the times he'd called an Earthly hunt.

  Skip chases had taken her out of the area and Dane had managed to tell her to stay away.

  Guilt and fear came each time she considered the possibility that Dane was paying the price for warning her before, that he wore fur to prevent him from doing it again.

  She reached her mother's blue adobe house and parked in front of the toy-cluttered front yard.

  The phantom links of the Reaper Lord's choke chain tightened.

  Bastian's words taunted.

  What would she be willing to do to keep this family safe? What was she willing to become?

  The answers scared her. Holding on to her humanity wasn't a sure thing. It wasn't even a likely one.

  Her hands slipped on the steering wheel, her palms slick, her mouth dry. Leave it alone for now. Pretend this is all there is.

  She climbed out of the Jeep and from inside the house Sorcha yelled, "Mallory!"

  The front door crashed open.

  Her sister emerged and it was like having sunshine poured into her soul, like that first breath of fresh air at emerging from Hell, so powerful it cleared the scent of burning flesh and brimstone.

  She braced as Sorcha raced toward her, coltish grace and unconscious beauty.

  She laughed at Hot Dog running at Sorcha's heels, his short legs and long, rounded body making him look more and more like a ballpark frank.

  "You came!" Sorcha said, slamming into her.

  Mallory hugged her sister, rocking back and forth, caught in the rush of scalding emotion. "I said I would."

  "You also said you hated clowns and they freaked you out."

  "Yeah, well, that's true. But I wouldn't miss Austin's birthday party."

  Mallory rubbed her cheek against the top of Sorcha's blonde head, inhaling the scent associated with love, the smell of summer fields. Her arms tightened at thinking of Amanda Edson, so similar in appearance to Sorcha, and yet her life so different.

  Sorcha wriggled in protest. "You're acting like an anaconda again."

  Mallory laughed and squeezed Sorcha before letting her go. She hadn't imagined she could love someone so fiercely after eight years in Hell. She hadn't wanted to. She still didn't, not when a Hound's love was a dangerous thing. But it was a lost cause from that moment she'd held the newborn Sorcha.

  "Where's the birthday boy?"

  "Helping Mom in the kitchen. He wanted homemade cupcakes instead of a regular cake or an ice-cream cake."

  Mallory crouched, scratching the miniature red dachshund doing a full body wag at her feet. "And your dad?"

  "On his way home." Sorcha lowered her voice to a whisper. "He said he had to check on one of the junior prosecutors, but I think he's really going to get Austin's birthday present."

  Mallory scooped Hot Dog up and stood. "Let's go steal a cupcake before the other kids get here and swarm on them."

  "What about your present for Austin? Is it in the Jeep?"

  "No. It's in my back pocket."

  Sorcha tried to retrieve it.

  Mallory laughed and twisted away, countering the move.

  Sorcha mock-pouted then asked, "Did you bring Dane?"

  The question was followed by giggling, over the name she thought Mallory had given her dog.

  "No. I left him at home. I wasn't positive he'd behave."

  "What about my brother Dane? Is he coming to the party?"

  "Not back yet." And you know your dad doesn't like to hear you call Dane that.

  Phillip had never approved of the company she kept, but he'd made it clear after Bastian's arrest that he didn't want his children exposed to the others, or thinking they were related to them, just because they had her in common.

  She didn't blame him.

  Reaching out and snagging Sorcha in a one-armed hug, she placed a quick kiss on her sister's forehead, Hot
Dog wriggling, trying to give his own doggie version of one.

  "I love you, Bug." I won't let your world be torn apart.

  Sorcha's hug was fierce. "I love you too, Mal."

  For an instant a fist closed around Mallory's heart, tightening painfully as she imagined what it would be like for Sorcha to have the sister she loved convicted of murder and jailed.

  It won't come to that. I won't lose control the way Bastian did, the way the alpha before him did. I won't surrender my humanity.

  If she could, she'd give up the advantages that came with being Hound if it meant being entirely human.

  Hot Dog managed to lick Sorcha's face. She laughed wildly, blonde hair catching the gold of the sun and blue eyes alive with joy. "Let's go inside, Mal. I bet Austin has made a mess of his cupcakes and the entire kitchen."

  "With Mom watching? I don't think so."

  Sorcha pouted. "It's his birthday. He's getting away with murder."

  Mallory cringed at the word, oversensitive to it after the jail visit. She glanced at her right hand and could almost feel the weight of the gun Bastian had used, the cold press of it against her palm, the judgment rendered, implicit with a finger touched to the trigger.

  Her heart sped. She wanted to wrap herself in the warm blanket of denial, but it was inescapable destiny for one of them now that Bastian was jailed. The gun was never out of the pack's possession for very long.

  Not me. It wouldn't be her. She wouldn't become alpha or lead the next of their sire's Earthly hunts.

  Sorcha's smaller hand grabbed the one Mallory stared at and tugged. "You're a zillion miles away, Mal. Are you thinking about someone you're hunting? Is there a big bounty on him?"

  "Not all the big bounties are on men, you know."

  Mallory looked up from their joined hands in time to see Sorcha roll her eyes.

  "I know. I know," Sorcha said on a heartfelt sigh. "But I bet most of them are."

  "Maybe."

  Rather than put Hot Dog down when they reached the house, Mallory pulled her hand from Sorcha's to open the front door.

  "So do you have a bond skip worth a lot of money?"

  They entered the house.

  "As a matter of fact, I do."

  "I do, what?" their mother called from the kitchen. "Have a boyfriend?"