Shifter Wars Complete Series

by Sarah J. Stone

  "Interesting story, but what does this all have to do with what happened last night? Aside from the brush with death, that is."

  "The job he met that bullet on? It was a lion meeting about taking out the clan elder who was killed last year. According to him, that is."

  "What do you mean ‘according to him'?"

  "I mean just that. When he came to, he went on about how it was one of the lions from the, ah, Carver clan, if I'm remembering correctly."

  "Then what?"

  "Then nothing. The lion—Aubrey Carver, that's it—denied the claims up and down, stating that he was nowhere near the scene when that all went down. And when it's the word of one of the wealthiest, most well-connected lions in the city against a bereaved agent whose head they just yanked a bullet out of, well, let's just say that the investigation didn't have much in the way of legs. I think they actually managed to smear Carter as an anti-lion speciest or some such nonsense by the time the whole thing was over and done with. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me."

  "Sounds that way to me."

  "And Carter. Between his partner getting killed and the debacle that followed, I suppose he figured that the life of a private citizen was for him. He'd already had plenty of money squirreled away from investments, so he was set. Spends his days drinking and feeling sorry for himself in some penthouse in Greenpoint, if I'm remembering correctly."

  I sat back, taking in all of this new information.

  "Hell of a thing," I said. "So, want to bring him into all of this?"

  "Sure do," Armitage said, leaning forward, another wry smile forming on the corner of his mouth. "This man was one of the best agents we had. And you, Agent Dupree, are going to bring him back into the fold."

  CHAPTER 4

  HARPER

  I didn't want to waste a single second. Armitage ordered me to go to medical for one last checkup before I headed out, to let the docs look me over another time and make sure that my liver wasn't bleeding into my gut or some such. But I felt fine, and I was feeling better by the second. The docs gave me a look-over, a really slow look-over, and once they confirmed that I was fine, they gave Armitage the okay to send me back into the field. Sure, they suggested that I spend the next few days in bed recovering, but I wasn't about to lay around like some damn invalid when it looked like war might break out at any minute.

  Once in my car, I peeled out of Sapien HQ so fast I thought I might melt the tires into hot sludge. Pulling onto the busy streets of the evening city, I checked once again the file on London one last time, to see if there was anything I might've missed on my first pass-through. But I got out of it just what I'd already known, that London had more or less dropped off the radar since he quit the force. And judging by the fact that all I had were a handful of dive bars in Brooklyn as the last known places where he'd been spotted, I got the impression that anonymity was what he was looking for.

  The bars were shifter places, and I figured I might as well check them off the list one by one. The first joint, Harold's Fang, was a real shithole of a place, some joint for bears who were just about to fall off the end of their rope. Strolling in, I knew that I was in a place of low spirits and high ABV when not a single one of the sad sacks bellied up to the bar when a probably the first woman in weeks came in. I had a drunk in the family, and I knew enough to know that when you're about to do a faceplant onto rock bottom, the only thing you care about is that little cup of poison in front of you, and whether or not you've got money for another.

  I mentioned the name to the bartender.

  "Jerrod London?" said the bartender, a bulky, ugly man with a long scar that curved across his bald head. "Yeah, he used to come around here."

  My spirit lifted.

  "’Till that fucker picked a fight for the last time and I gave him the boot. Haven't seen him in months. And I couldn't give less of a shit where he ended up."

  Discouraged, headed for the next bar, Hemlock, some joint down near Coney Island. Same deal there: London was a regular until he started some shit and the owners figured out that he was worth more trouble than the money he brought in.

  Last place on the list was a joint in Bushwick, the Crescent Moon. If he wasn't there, then I had not a damn clue where to try for him. I'd be at square one.

  Pushing open the door to the place, the smell of stale cigarettes and even staler beer hit me like a bitter wind. The place was illuminated with low lights that hung over dingy pool tables, raunchy music played over the speakers, and a handful of patrons were huddled over their drinks here and there.

  Taking a breath, I headed up to the bar and gave him my usual spiel. But this time, instead of a tale of a barroom brawl followed by a glib dismissal, the bartender gave a flick of his head that directed me toward the far corner of the bar, a sad little spot away from the lights where a man sat shrouded in shadow. I couldn't make out who it was.

  "Here's the thing," the bartender said, leaning in and speaking conspiratorially. "Pretty boy over there has strict instructions to let him know if anyone comes pokin' around for him. But if you ask me, his tab's gotten a little high for those kinda favors. So…"

  His grimy hand extended across the bar and I knew just what he was looking for. Sighing, I pulled out a hundred from my wallet and placed them into his palm.

  "Any chance I could get a receipt on this? Workplace expenditure write-offs and all that," I said sardonically.

  The bartender snorted and walked off.

  My eyes fell onto the man in the shadows. In front of him was a pint of beer, and a lit cigarette sitting in an ashtray, a wavy line of smoke extending up from its glowing tip. If this was him, he clearly didn't want to be bothered.

  "Smoking indoors is illegal, you know," I said, making my way to him. "Might bring a hefty fine down on your ass for that."

  The shadowed figure didn't even bother to turn to face me. "They're not exactly sticklers about the rules here, if you didn't already get that impression." His voice was low, resonant, and a little sensual. Like a gruff, manly purr.

  "Think we could chat for a bit? Next drink's on me."

  I stood a few feet away from him, his face still covered by the dark.

  "Who's asking?"

  "Just someone who wants to get to know you a little better."

  He let out a dry bark of a laugh. "Can tell you're not a regular; this bar isn't known for its chatty clientele. Fine, you want to buy me some whiskey, you can sit here with me while I drink it. But don't expect sparkling conversation."

  And then he finally turned to face me. I nearly gasped when that same gorgeous face from the photo before emerged from the shadows. Despite everything, including the hard-drinking he'd undoubtedly been getting up to, he was still startlingly handsome. Only a black beard indicated that he hadn't had the best year. That, and his somewhat shabby clothes.

  "Um, thank you," I said, sliding into the seat.

  My voice came out a little weaker than I would've liked, but I couldn't help it- those piercing eyes of his on me were like being caught in some kind of beam.

  "I'm not really expecting conversation," I said, getting my bearings as I flagged down the bartender. "Just hoping you'd listen to what I had to say."

  "Even better," he said. "Not really a fan of chit-chat."

  The bartender approached. "Ah, one whiskey, and one club soda with a lime, please," I said.

  Another quick bark of a laugh sounded out. "'Club soda with a lime'?" he asked. "You sit and talk with me, you drink."

  "No, thanks," I said. "Not much of a drinker."

  "Did my voice go up at the end of that sentence?"

  "Fine," I said. "Two whiskeys."

  "How about three," he said. "And go ahead and pour two of them into the same glass."

  The bartender headed off.

  "First of all," he said. "If you're about to start selling be something—product or religion—you might as well save your breath. I'm not buying."

  "No offense," I said, watching the bartende
r pour our drinks, "but you don't really look like anyone's target demographic in the state you're in."

  A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth but it disappeared just as quickly as it came. "Then go on and get to it."

  Now that I was closer, I could see a scar on his face, a quick little line that started just above his eye and ended somewhere in his hair. It wasn't an ugly scar, which was surprising, considering the manner that he'd gotten it. I had a picture in my head of just what a non-fatal gunshot wound to the head looked like, and this certainly wasn't it. And if I needed any confirmation that this was my man, there it was.

  "Ah, introductions first, I suppose," I said. "My name's Harper Dupree. I'm with the Sapiens."

  His body tensed up, almost like he was getting ready for a fight. "I already don't like where this conversation's going," he said.

  "And you're Jerrod London?"

  "The one and only."

  Two glasses of whiskey were then placed in front of us, the one in front of Jerrod so full that the booze was nearly sloshing over the rim.

  "Cheers," Jerrod said, raising his glass.

  "What're we ‘cheers'ing to, exactly?"

  "Just do it," he said. "Bad luck if you don't. And lord knows I don't need any more of that."

  I raised my glass and gave his a little tap. Jerrod then brought his to his lips and took a long, deep pull, one that left about half of the liquid remaining. I brought my own glass to my lips and took the tiniest of sips, just enough for the astringent, battery-acid taste of the whiskey to flood my mouth. I winced a bit, and set the drink back down.

  "For a Sapien, you're kind of a sissy when it comes to that stuff."

  "Just not much a drinker," I said.

  "A good girl, huh?" he asked.

  A small smile formed on my lips at the suggestion that I was anything like a "good girl." Armitage would laugh until his sides split at a suggestion like that.

  "Nope," I said. "Just never developed a taste for it."

  "Then you're not a good girl?"

  "I'm not here to talk about me, Agent London."

  "Then what are you here to talk about?" His tone took on a harder edge. "And I'll thank you to not stick that word in front of my last name again; I'm not part of that fucking group anymore. And for good reason."

  My stomach tensed and my skin tingled as I realized that I was walking on dangerous ground. I knew all about his history, of course, and it didn't take a psychologist to let me know that bringing up the incident that caused London to part ways with the Sapiens was likely a good way to get him to storm off and never talk to me again. So, I reminded myself to choose my words carefully.

  "I'm here to talk about the incident that happened in midtown last night."

  "What incident?" he asked.

  "You mean, you didn't hear?"

  "Lady," he said, "in case you didn't pick up on my how I choose to spend my free time, I don't really make much of an effort to stay in the loop with the shifter world. Got no time for the political bullshit, or what species is at what species' throat or wants what territory. I said goodbye to all that shit a year ago. And I've been better off for it."

  "Then let me fill you in," I said. "Please."

  "Did you really track me down just to let me know about whatever case you're slogged with?" he snorted.

  "I just think that you'd be able to help out."

  "Am I getting a consulting fee for this?" he asked.

  "That could be arranged, I'm sure," I said.

  "Not much for sarcasm, are you?"

  I had to suppress the urge to let out a frustrated sigh. To describe Jerrod as "prickly" would be the understatement of the year.

  "Fine," he said. "Lay it on me. But I expect you to keep the drinks coming."

  "Deal."

  I went right into it, telling him all about the incident, about how my team was killed, about how the lion VIPs were murdered, about how gorillas with strange, scent-masking abilities were behind it. And the more I told Jerrod, the more I watched him tense up like a spring, as if hearing all of this was a burden on him that grew more oppressive by the minute. And when I was all done, a long silence hung in the air.

  "Sorry about your team," he said after a time, his tone slightly softer. "Something like that never gets easier to deal with."

  "And I know all about your history," I said, finally broaching the subject. "About what happened to your partner, about how you got that scar."

  "Then you'd know that it's not a subject I'm all that interested in discussing, right?" he said, that edge of anger returning to his voice.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "But I only bring it up because I think that the case that you were working on that night a year ago and what happened to me yesterday are connected."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because it's the lions; another lion VIP was killed, this time one of the Three. And they're already talking about war with the wolves. But I don't think it's the wolves. I think it's someone in the lion society who wants to take control of the entire species."

  "Carver," he said quietly, almost as though he didn't want me to hear it.

  "Huh?"

  "Aubrey Carver. One of the most powerful lions in the species. Cold, calculating asshole, the type who'd slit his own mother's throat if it meant he'd rise just a little more to the top."

  "You think this is him?" I asked.

  "I don't know for sure."

  Before he could continue, the doors to the bar flung open and a trio of rough-looking men walked in, all moving in the same bulky swagger. My eyes stayed on them for a moment before I turned my attention back to Jerrod.

  "Maybe it was him behind the assassinations last night, maybe it wasn't," he said. "But I know for a goddamn fact that he was the one who killed my partner. He did it right in front of my goddamn face."

  "How did he get away with it? If you were right there to witness it?"

  "Lions like him with power and connections; not hard to pull things in your favor. A few bribes here and there was all it took to have a few shrinks on his side who all said that a gunshot wound like the one I took right to the face would be more than enough to make anything I happened to remember before it happened not worth considering. And they managed to clean up that whole scene, made it look like me and my partner walked in on some drug deal gone bad and got caught right in the middle of it. And I was out for a goddamn month; more than enough time to get a good story together. He tried to ruin my reputation, suggested that I tried to pin it on him because it brought more attention to my case. Said I was a speciest, too, on top of everything."

  He shook his head and took another drink.

  "Did such a good job fucking with my head that I sometimes found myself wondering just what I'd seen that night. But that passed, and I knew that he was the one who pulled the trigger. And he got away with it, scot-fucking-free."

  "Then doesn't this make you want to do the right thing?" I asked. "What if what happened to me last night was because of this man, this…Aubrey Carver? Don't you owe it to yourself to at least attempt to find out if he had anything to do with it?"

  "Don't tell me what I owe to myself," he snapped. "I've spent a long time with this shit, and I'm dealing with it in the only way I know how."

  "By doing what, drinking yourself into another coma? One that you might never come out of?"

  He turned to me with narrowed eyes. Then he grabbed his drink, finished off the last bit, and slammed the glass back down on the bar. "I swore that I was done with the Sapiens, and I intend to stay true to that."

  "Not even if you could avenge your partner? Not even if you could bring to justice the man who killed her? Not even if you could prevent any unnecessary war that could kill hundreds?"

  Jerrod said nothing, his eyes instead focused on the empty glass in front of him

  Finally, he spoke. To the bartender.

  "Another one of these," he said. "And keep ‘em coming."

  I shook my head. It was al
l I could do. "Fine," I said. "Stay here and drink whatever's left of your life away. Let the city go to hell around you. At least you'll be too drunk to care."

  "Sounds pretty damn good to me," he said.

  I pushed my seat back and got up. But before I turned around, I smelled a strange something in the air. My face crinkled into an expression of confusion. The smell was strange…but familiar. Before I could think too long about it, a voice spoke from behind me.

  "Lookin' for Jerrod London," a deep, Brooklyn-accented voice said. "Heard he likes to get shitty drunk around these parts."

  I turned around and was confronted with the sight of the three men who'd only moments earlier entered the bar. They looked like even rougher characters this close up, all of them wearing the same, scowling expression on their faces.

  "Guess I'm a pretty popular guy tonight," Jerrod said, not turning away from his fresh drink. "But who the fuck is asking?"

  I took another sniff of the air. That smell…

  Then I realized that I wasn't able to place the species of any of these men. They were shifters, but nothing about them—not even their species, let alone their clan—was detectable. It was that same generic scent that I'd smelled last night, the one I smelled right before the gorillas attacked.

  "Then it's you?" the man in front said. "Good, we got a little message for ya."

  In the span of a split second, the lead man reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a silver pistol, and aimed it right at the back of Jerrod's head.

  "Jerrod!" I shouted.

  But he'd already suspected something. In an incredible flash of movement, Jerrod spun in his seat and drove his hand up to the man's wrist. He cracked it at an angle, the gun firing a shot that went harmlessly into the ceiling.

  "Fuck!" the bartender shouted, taking cover.

  The rest of the clientele scattered at the sound of the gun, scrambling for cover. Jerrod, his eyes now burning, drove his other hand into the first man's chest, causing him to stumble backward, the air blasted out of his lungs. The man closest to me responded by pulling out his own gun and drawing it at Jerrod. This time it was my turn. I grabbed the man's wrist with one hand and his upper arm with the other and jerked hard, breaking the bone clean through. Jerrod saw this, grabbed the gun the now hung limply in the man's hand and fired a pair of shots dead-center into his chest.