Beast Coast (A Carus Novel Book 2)
Page 5
“No.”
“I said, answer the question!” He shifted weight as if he was about to stomp one of his feet. Must’ve thought better of it, because he took a deep breath and returned to his regular stance.
“I did. No, I’m not on an SRD assignment. And if I had been, you’d have blown my cover.” Take that, asshole. I identified myself to the emergency responders as an SRD agent, but I doubted he knew that. And if he did… Was that why he came? Did he personally attend this crime scene because he harboured resentment toward me and wanted to make my life miserable? Now that, I could believe.
“Truth.”
Agent Tucker pursed his lips. His eyebrows bunched together. If it weren’t for the raucous noise the train engines made when idling, I’d swear I heard the wheels in his head turning. “Are you on this train for a vacation?”
I snorted. “No.”
Nagato nodded when Tucker glanced at him.
“Are you here under someone else’s orders?”
My back straightened. “Are we going to play twenty questions all night? If so, I would like my SRD union representative.” I’d no idea if I had one of those, or even if I was in a union, but it sounded like the right thing to say.
Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “Just answer the question and we’re done.”
“We’re done now.” I folded my arms.
Tucker leaned in. “Who’s got control of you, Agent McNeilly?” He glanced at Clint, his gaze shifting over his body, probably still trying to place him.
It wouldn’t take him long to figure out who I traveled with. Then he’d know a relationship between me and Lucien’s court existed. Fuck. Face recognition software was a bitch.
Tucker turned back to me. “Sounds like a Conflict Of Interest. A COI is grounds for removal.”
“Termination,” I corrected. One implied the end of a job, while the other referred to the end of life. Personally, I saw a reason to distinguish between the two.
Tucker’s eyes gleamed. I half expected him to squeal in delight; instead, he crossed his arms. “Sure.”
“Are you threatening me? Again?”
Tucker straightened and adjusted his tie. “You misunderstand me. I’m looking out for your best interests.”
Yeah, right.
“You’re lucky, you know, that I’m not hauling you and your travel companions in. This isn’t the VPD. Hell, this isn’t even Vancouver. We’re an international organization for supernaturals.”
“Haul me in? The local law enforcement and all the witnesses agreed the norms were possessed. Even the VPD is handing the scene over. This is clearly supe on supe self-defence.”
He waggled his finger in my face. “But norms were killed.”
My fingers itched to waggle right back, but I balled them into a fist and kept them close to my side. “The SRD and North American Law Enforcement Agreement clearly states any possessed norms forfeit their rights and protection under the Norm Charter of Rights because they no longer have control of their faculties and possess supernatural characteristics and abilities, such as increased strength and speed. For all intents and purposes, possessed norms fall under the supernatural classification. You know this. Supe on supe is SRD jurisdiction. Let us go.”
“Be careful, Andy,” he said and walked away. The feras in my head snarled, wanting me to attack his exposed back. Sometimes, it was hard to say no.
Nagato said a polite goodbye before following Tucker. His stiff back and jilted gait indicated he didn’t like giving his back to a Shifter and a Werewolf one bit. I didn’t blame him.
When the agents were out of supernatural hearing distance, Clint leaned over. “What’s between you and loverboy?”
I choked on the label. “He hates me.”
“You seem to inspire that reaction in a lot of people,” Clint said.
Ignoring him, I glanced around. Coffee. Coffee would be good right now. There must be a vendor somewhere around here.
“Any particular reason he hates you?” Clint asked.
“Oh…” I waved a nonchalant hand in the air. “I tried to kill him.”
Clint and Steve laughed.
“Did you guys see a coffee shop? I might go postal if I don’t inject caffeine into my system.”
Steve, bless his heart, looked around. “There’s coffee on the train.”
“Ugh. Did you smell that stuff? No way am I drinking that.”
“Yet you go to Suzy’s Gourmet Café?” Clint narrowed his eyes at me.
“For you. I got my morning coffee somewhere else.” I couldn’t hide the shudder that came with the memory of the first time I had a coffee from the place. I’d used it as a surveillance location. Many hours of scouting meant many coffees, which in turn, meant many sore stomachs.
The human servant grunted and turned away. Was he smiling?
“Why?” Steve asked.
“Um…It’s disgusting?” I could think of a few more words to describe the brown liquid they served at the café.
Steve shook his head. “Why did you try to kill Agent Tucker?”
“He asked about my feras.”
Steve sucked in a breath. No further explanation necessary. Everyone knew how sensitive Shifters were about their fera familiars. The death of the fera meant the death of the Shifter, and vice versa. During the Shifter Shankings, every redneck with a gun went out shooting any animal in close proximity to humans. The result included the extermination of many household pets, along with an estimated ninety percent of the Shifter population, including my birth parents. Or so I assumed. I’d hoped the SRD had the information in a file somewhere, but I’d yet to find anything.
Clint turned back. “You’re supposed to be an assassin. Have you completed any successful hits?”
My mouth tingled as my teeth elongated. “I’ll show you a good hit.”
“Down, kitten,” Clint said. “Why isn’t he dead?”
“We were interrupted.”
Chapter Six
“I personally think we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.”
~Lily Tomlin
Whenever I read about Vampire summits, the stories filled the page with intrigue, danger, and lots of mind-blowing sex. The reality was far more boring. Maybe I should stop reading the pre-Purge paranormal romances I’d found in thrift stores. They might be hilarious, but they were also sadly misleading. Not that I wanted to bone a bloodsucker, but this was booooring.
When is the blood rage and feeding frenzy? I asked Steve.
Only you would want to see that. He sounded annoyed.
I hear it’s pretty epic. I examined my nails before staring at the back of Clint’s head. He sat at an enormous table in a boardroom while his assistants, meaning me and Steve, stood in the background listening to hours of boring Vampire conversation and debate.
Vampires liked to present themselves as refined to the point of pretentious—sitting at elegant tables, using multisyllabic words and subtle hand gestures, wearing expensive clothes and having attractive staff mill around to attend to their every need—but I knew better. They were animals, like me.
And who would you suggest they have the feeding frenzy on? Steve asked.
He had a point. Everyone but us?
Steve snorted, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He made a bad show of coughing. Clint received a few dark looks and sneers of contempt. I didn’t need to smell their derision to know they thought he should have better control of his slaves.
My phone vibrated to let me know I had a message. Pulling it out discreetly, I tapped the screen and checked my inbox.
You, me, tonight, from an unknown number.
Who is this? I meant to text quickly, but it took five attempts to type with my thumbs. Ever since the time I accidently told Wick I’d stopped for cocaine instead of caffeine and when Mel, my best friend, asked me to get penis instead of pedis, I lost my trust in technology and proofread all my messages.
Tristan, came the reply.
Aware of
my current location and whose company I kept, I bit back the laugh bubbling up my throat. Can’t. Out of town. How’d you get this number?
I have skills.
Clint cleared his throat and shot a dark look over his shoulder. I put the phone away.
****
The elevator doors shut softly against the stench of Vampires.
“If I have to hear any more complaining from either of you two, I’m going to leash Steve and make him watch while I spank you like the bad little girl you’ve been.” Clint didn’t sound as angry as his words implied. He looked like he enjoyed the idea.
Sniffing the air, I recoiled. He didn’t just enjoy it, he was turned on. Gross.
Steve growled, not liking the dog reference. Werewolves could be so testy about species confusion. I didn’t know why. I read somewhere wolves and domesticated dogs were the same species since they produced viable offspring. Steve probably wouldn’t appreciate the information right now.
“Whatever, Clint. Can we just go to our rooms for the night?” I leaned against the elevator wall and sagged a little. “Are we done?”
Tonight’s meeting lasted four hours as the Vampires debated the pros and cons of forming an alliance with the Demons. It took them half the time to figure out both groups included blood-obsessed sadomasochists who shared similar interests, and the rest of the night to agree Demons couldn’t be trusted and might use the alliance to get a foothold into this reality and betray the Vampires.
Duh. I could’ve told them that in less than a minute and had time left to throw in a couple unsavory and extremely unladylike words. My feet ached, and I blamed Clint and Lucien entirely for my pain and discomfort. At least we’d missed Friday’s meetings and festivities due to the train delay.
“No,” Clint said with a tone that brooked no arguments. “We go to the ball being held in an hour.”
“Why?” I grumbled. “Its sole purpose is to provide an environment for vamps to rub up against one another.”
“Precisely why we go. We need to see who rubs up against each other, who’s avoiding who, and who’s unable to control their minions…” Clint gave me a pointed look after the last statement. What’s his deal?
“So I have to wear the contraption?”
“Yes.” Clint smiled. “You have to wear the dress.”
The elevator door opened, and I sulked down the hallway to my room without saying another word to the two men.
“Do you need help?” Clint asked, calling after me.
I did, but I’d ever admit that to him. He wasn’t asking to be helpful. I turned to give him a tight smile. “I’ll manage.”
Clint smirked like he knew I lied and already envisioned the trouble I’d have getting into the dress. I flashed him the bird and stepped into my room.
There, draped on a padded pink hanger on the outside of the closet, hung layers upon layers of structured gown. I stared at the dress with trepidation and decided to down a couple mini-bar bottles of booze before attempting the impossible.
It took thirty minutes to figure out how to shove my body into the dress and another ten to admit I needed someone to zip it up.
I need help, and if I ever hear anything about this, I’ll rip your throat out.
Who am I to refuse such a gracious call for assistance? Steve’s voice laughed back at me. Especially when you ask so sweetly.
A growl escaped my lips. He was in the other room and couldn’t hear it, but the deep rumble through my chest alleviated some of the tension hiking up my neck.
When he knocked on the door, I swung it open and yanked him into my room by his shirt. Steve smirked and twirled his index finger in the air, indicating for me to spin around. “Suck it in, baby.”
I held my hair out of the way and would’ve exhaled in relief when Steve pulled the zipper up if the corset allowed that sort of freedom. “Thanks,” I wheezed and turned around.
Steve raised his phone and snapped a picture.
I held my hand out against the bright flash, too late. “Uh… What the fuck are you doing?”
“Taking a picture.”
Blinking away the white spots, I grumbled. “I know that.” I crossed my arms.
Steve glanced down, then his tanned face turned fire-hydrant red and his eyes cut away. He suddenly became enraptured with the screen of his smart phone. I followed his original look down. My folded arms accentuated my already propped and exposed chest. The girls looked ready to pop. Wowza! I dropped my arms to let them hang by my sides. “Why did you take a picture?”
“Wick asked me to.”
Before I could reply with something catty, my phone beeped. I had to dig my cell out of my cleavage, causing Steve’s eyebrows to rise into his hairline.
“Well, where else could I put it?” I asked, then realizing his possible answers, quickly added, “Don’t answer that.”
“Too easy.”
I checked my phone and read a one-word text from Wick: Hot.
A silly little smile spread across my face, and I turned so Steven wouldn’t see it. Despite everything, Wick knew how to push my buttons—all the right ones. And he was correct, I did look hot.
The ink-black dress Clint provided fit my tall frame with a deep plunging neckline that defied the term “sweetheart.” Soft black lace accentuated my bronzed skin tone and hung over some fancy material—chiffon? Satin? Taffeta? No idea. But the gown flattered my figure in a way I didn’t know possible. The contraption looked like a black widow spat out a wedding dress, but in a good way. I would never be the pink, puffy, princess-dress type. Clint pegged me well enough to pick out the right gown. That disturbed me.
Steve cleared his throat. “We should go before Clint’s gruts get all twisted.”
“Gruts?”
“Man-panties.”
I laughed and followed him out to the hallway to find Clint propped against the wall with his arms folded, waiting. He looked like a gentleman with his classic good looks, black suit, and tie. Hah! Not likely. He gave me an efficient once-over, his eyes widened slightly and his mouth relaxed.
“What?” I snapped.
Clint shrugged. “You clean up nice.” Pushing off the wall with his shoulders, he straightened his suit. “Although I’m hurt you asked the mutt for help instead of me.”
Steve sniffed and lifted his chin in a short jerk.
“Relax,” Clint said. “We all have an act to follow tonight. Don’t forget it for a second.”
I crossed my arms. Oops! Cleavage. Then I quickly uncrossed my arms to let them dangle at my side. “So you’re a method actor?”
“Sure.” He straightened his tie. Spinning on his heel, he sauntered down the hallway. “Follow me, slaves.”
Steve offered his arm, and we walked linked behind Clint.
Once we entered the ballroom, we let Clint walk farther ahead and made a pit stop at the bar. Making a show of being a good servant, I ordered Clint’s favorite drink—Glenfiddich, neat, along with scooping non-alcoholic punch for myself. When we caught up, Clint snatched his drink from my hand without looking or acknowledging my presence. He was convincing as a power-tripping, egotistical human servant. Method actor, my ass. This was every day for him.
“Dog,” Clint addressed Steve over his shoulder. “You will patrol the perimeter and keep me posted on anything unusual.” When Steve hesitated, Clint turned to him. “You’re dismissed.”
Steve made a small bow and withdrew, blending in with the myriad of black suits in the room. He’s such a dick, he sent to me.
I know, I replied before turning my attention to the man in question.
Clint tilted his head at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You should treat others the way you want to be treated.” I sipped my drink and waited for his response.
Clint’s brow furrowed. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
Clint ducked his head close to mine. “I’m not going to walk around blowing everyone.”
The corners of Clint’s lips twitched. He took a slow sip of his Glenfiddich, watching me over the rim.
“You’re disgusting,” I said.
“Yet, honest.”
I looked at my half-empty punch glass and regretted my decision for the non-alcoholic version. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to have this conversation.”
Clint reached out for my glass, but I pulled away.
“Like I’d let you get me a drink. You’d probably throw roofies into it.”
Clint shook his head. “Relax. You’re a Shifter. I’d try horse tranquilizers first.”
I spun on my heel and headed to the bar. Despite coming to this event fully aware I’d have to play a servant role and Clint had asshole-like tendencies, it still made it difficult to stomach. I hated acting like someone’s bitch. It stirred up a lot of suppressed memories. I wanted to embed my fist into Clint’s face, and that would ruin our entire charade. Not even an hour into the ball, and I needed something stronger to drink.
It would calm the three feras screaming in my head, as well.
When the bartender handed my drink over, I thanked him and walked away from the bar, only to have a heavy blanket of almond spice envelop me. My mouth watered, and I rapidly swallowed in quick succession to prevent drooling all over my gown.
Growing up, I had a Dutch best friend in high school—Maartje. She told everyone to call her Marsha because she hated people butchering the pronunciation of her name. I called her Marty. Her family, a group of giants defying the vertical limitations of normal humans, taught me to have a great appreciation for all things almond. Almost every Dutch dessert contained the ingredient in some form—speculaas, banketstaaf, amandel koekjes, and a whole slew of other desserts I couldn’t pronounce without spitting.
Marty grew up and moved out. She didn’t bake, and no longer having access to her mother’s pastries meant our friendship quickly fizzled out.
That and she slept with my boyfriend at the time, Caden. He was a dick. I think the loss of free kerststol and chocolate sprinkles to put on my toast hurt more than her betrayal.