Kat Dubois Chronicles

by Lindsey Sparks

  “Eva?” I made my way back to the kitchen, moving between a microsuede sectional and a black-stained coffee table. I dropped my backpack off on the couch as I passed it, glancing at Garth’s left hand as I walked. No ring, so it didn’t look like Eva was the name of his wife. “Girlfriend?” My brows drew together. “Or daughter?” He’d never mentioned any family. Well, besides his ancestors and his relatives over on the Port Madison Reservation. But no SOs or kiddos.

  “No, nothing like that.” Garth pulled two glass tumblers out of the dishwasher, then met my eyes. “I ran it this morning. They’re clean, I promise.”

  I shrugged, stopping at the narrow kitchen island. The quartz countertop gleamed, a stark contrast to the dark-stained cabinets and stainless steel appliances. It wasn’t like I could die of food poisoning, anyway.

  A cat jumped up on the counter, settling on the edge like a gargoyle, her luminous green eyes locked on me. The feline was on the smaller side, its fur mostly white but mottled with patches of gray and orange. Its slim tail was wrapped around its feet, the end twitching every few seconds.

  “See,” Garth said. “Eva.”

  “Oh . . .” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the creature, not when I was getting the very distinct impression that she was plotting my death.

  Garth uncorked the whiskey, filled one glass a third of the way, the other quite a bit more, then slid the fuller one my way, along with the bottle. That got my attention, and I risked breaking eye contact with the cat to catch the glass before it reached the edge of the counter. The bottle didn’t travel quite so far, but it was near enough for comfort.

  Garth picked up his own glass and rounded the island, taking a sip as he walked. He stopped by the cat—Eva—and scratched the top of her head. Her eyelids slid shut most of the way, just a sliver of green and black remaining trained on me.

  “Don’t be offended if she doesn’t warm up to you right away,” Garth said, moving his hand under her chin. Eva stretched out her neck, giving him freer access. “She’s kind of a one-man cat.”

  I forced a closed-mouth smile and picked up the glass, downing half the Jameson in a single gulp. It burned going down, just the way I liked it. “Thanks for this,” I said, clearing my throat, and saluted him with the booze. I cleared my throat, took another sip, then set the glass down. “It’s been a rough week. A strange week.”

  Garth’s gaze moved over my face and hair. “Where are you staying?”

  I stared at him, hard. “What makes you think I’m not staying at my place?”

  “I stopped by the shop,” he said. “Nik told me you wouldn’t be around for a while. That, on top of the warrant issued for your arrest this afternoon, well . . .”

  I stiffened, feeling like I’d been doused in frigid salt water straight from the Puget Sound.

  “Your photo’s been all over the news. They say you were responsible for the fire at that warehouse . . . and that you killed someone.”

  “Shit,” I hissed. That might explain the stares from the librarian and the fear in the convenience store clerk’s eyes. If there was a warrant out for me, not to mention news alerts, my plans would have to change drastically. No more evenings in bars. No more traipsing around the city. And definitely no impromptu trips back to the shop. I had to lay low, for real this time. There was no doubt in my mind that the Senate was behind this. It was their way of slowing me down, using the humans to track me so they could focus their efforts on fighting Heru.

  I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised. But that didn’t stop me from being irritated. And pissed off. What was I supposed to do now?

  I could go to the Tent District. Law enforcement barely had any jurisdiction there since the city had already written off most of its residents as lost causes, nuisances better contained within the unofficial district’s fences than out and about on the streets of Seattle. I could duck out there . . . or I could leave the city altogether. My city. My home. My mission would take me away from Seattle one of these days, anyway, so why not today?

  But what about the kids? I tensed at the thought. I’d made a promise to Dorman, and damn it, I would stick to it. I would find a cure for this damn disease and lock in the loyalty of Dorman’s followers. I would do it, damn it.

  Garth touched my chin, and I flinched away from him. He lowered his hand back to the cat. “You’ve been staying on the streets, haven’t you?”

  I stared down at the glass of whiskey. “Not exactly.”

  “Kat . . .” Garth set his own glass down softly, barely making a sound on the stone countertop. “You can stay here.”

  I stared at him, stunned by the offer. Slowly, I shook my head.

  “It’s fine, really.” His strong features were set, his jaw tensed, his coffee-brown eyes hard, determined. “Stay here. Nobody would think to look for you here.”

  “But I’m wanted. And people already know that you know me.” I was still shaking my head. “Henderson . . . all the cops who saw me in the waiting room . . .” I’d visited him back when he was in the hospital, recovering from his injuries. Was it really only a week ago? So much had changed since then. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, then picked up my glass and took a sip.

  “I may have told them I made a pass at you,” Garth said, meeting my gaze for the briefest moment before refocusing on Eva the cat. “And that you rejected me.”

  I was in the process of swallowing and choked on the whiskey.

  “They dropped the subject because, well, what kind of a guy can’t even get a pity date while he’s laid up in the hospital?”

  I finished off the glass and reached for the bottle of Jameson. “Trust me, Garth, you don’t need pity to get a date.” I uncorked the bottle, filled up my glass, and held the bottle out to him, fake smile plastered on my face. “Refill?”

  He drained his glass, then set it down, knocking it closer to me with a couple taps of his fingernails. “At least they think you want nothing to do with me. Nobody’ll look for you here.” He turned away and headed through a doorway, hitting the light switch on the wall as he went. The light in his bedroom flared to life.

  The furnishings within were fairly Spartan and very masculine, all in black, white, and gray, the only touch of color his navy blue comforter. His furniture was on the plain side, the black dresser and nightstands more simple than modern, and his bed didn’t have a headboard. There were two other doors on the rightmost wall, the nearest shut—a closet, I figured—the other open, revealing a bathroom vanity and mirror. In the reflection, I could see a heavenly looking shower, a great big slate-tiled masterpiece with two showerheads, a removable one on the wall and a wide, rain shower one hanging down from the ceiling.

  I only noticed I was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, likely drooling, when Garth started shutting the door. “I’m going to change, then you can shower and get cleaned up while I cook.”

  “Uh . . . yeah. OK.” I took a step backward.

  Garth shut the door, leaving it cracked open the barest amount. I didn’t think he realized I could see his reflection in the bedroom window.

  Feeling like a voyeur, I moved back to the kitchen island and reached out to let Eva sniff my fingers. She extended her neck, her little pink nostrils flaring, then blinked and turned her head away from me. At least she didn’t try to bite me.

  I looked around the dining-slash-living room, trying my hardest to ignore the crack in the door. Garth’s furniture out here fit with what was in his bedroom, his preferred design aesthetic striking me as clean, functional, and simple. There was little in the way of knickknacks or personal touches, unless you counted the big-ass painting of a whale on the wall behind the couch. I thought it was an orca, though it was hard to tell, since the image was done in a distinctly coastal Native American style, all black and red on a white background.

  At the sound of clothing hitting the hardwood floor, my focus shifted back to the crack in the doorway. The shirt of Garth’s uniform was gone, as was his bulky bulletproof vest, and he wa
s pulling his white undershirt off over his head. He wasn’t flawless, not like so many Nejerets who’d had decades or even centuries to perfect their bodies, and he was almost more appealing for it. He was muscular, but not jacked, his physique honed more for function than attraction.

  I smiled to myself. He treated his body just like he treated his home—function over form.

  I was pleasantly surprised to see that he had some ink, all in the same style as that lone painting on the living room wall. There was a round-ish palm-sized design with a face on his chest over his heart, and when he turned to head toward the closet, I became enamored with the piece on his back. It was enormous, of an owl with outstretched wings, the tips reaching the ends of his shoulders and a moon with a face filling the space between his shoulder blades. It was stunning—so striking and beautifully evocative of his heritage.

  The sound of his belt coming off shook me out of my voyeuristic stupor, and I turned my back to the door and reached for my glass. “What?” I said to Eva just before I took a hearty swig.

  She was staring at me. Judging me, I was certain.

  I cleared my throat. “So,” I said, raising my voice so Garth could hear me in the other room. “I’m surprised they let you go back to work so soon.”

  “The station’s short-staffed.” He made a sound that was part grunt, part groan. “They didn’t even wait until I got home from the hospital to ask me to come in on light duty. The guy who drove me home let me know they needed me to come in the next day—chief’s orders.”

  “I thought you were ‘Chief.’” It was the other officers’ nickname for him.

  “The chief,” he said, opening the door. He was wearing light gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that strained at his shoulders, just a little. “As in, the police chief.”

  “Oh,” I said, laughing and rolling my eyes at my denseness. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I swear I’m not usually this slow.”

  “Go.” He pointed to the bedroom with his chin. “Wash up. You’ll feel better after a shower.”

  Nodding slowly, I finished off my whiskey and ambled into the bedroom. I shut the door just as Garth had—not quite all the way. Fair’s fair, after all. I shrugged out of my leather jacket and laid it on the bed, then unzipped my sweatshirt and did the same with it. My tank top came off next.

  I peeked my head back out into the living area, shooting a quick glance at my backpack. Everything I had in there was as dirty as what I was wearing, if not worse. “Do you mind if I do a load of laundry later?”

  Garth, who’d been ducked in the fridge, stood and looked at me, smile genuine and eyes kind. “You bet.”

  “Cool.” Biting my lip, I glanced at the backpack, once more. “And, uh, can I borrow some clothes?” I smiled apologetically. “Just until my stuff’s clean?”

  Garth chuckled. “Yeah, sure. I’ll pull something out for you while you’re in the shower.” He returned to the fridge. “Do you like eggs? I was thinking breakfast for dinner.”

  I grinned, stomach rumbling. I should’ve ordered some fries or something while I was at the pub. “BFD—sounds great. And, um, I sort of eat a lot,” I warned him. “It’s a thing . . . with my kind, I mean. Just so you know . . .”

  Garth laughed. “Noted.”

  I pulled back into the bedroom and quickly shed the rest of my clothes, leaving my combat boots on the floor by the closet and everything else wadded up into a bundle held together by my sweatshirt. I set the clothes on the floor beside my boots and padded into the bathroom, more than a little excited to get to know Garth’s shower.

  Like, really well.

  Chapter Seven

  Garth’s shower didn’t disappoint. It was as divine as I’d imagined it would be, and by the time I emerged, pruney and squeaky clean, I felt like a new woman. I smelled like a new woman, too, thank the gods.

  Wrapped in an oversized towel that nearly reached my ankles, I headed back into Garth’s bedroom. A gray T-shirt and sweatshirt, some black sweatpants, and a pair of white socks were laid out on the foot of the bed.

  I dropped the towel and dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt, opting to go barefoot for the moment. It had been days since my feet were truly free. I put on the sweatshirt, too, because no bra. Before heading back out to rejoin Garth, I scooped up the towel along with my dirty clothes.

  I toed the door open, my saliva production quadrupling the minute the smell of frying bacon smacked me in the face. “Holy shit, that smells amazing.”

  It looked like he’d listened when I said I had a big appetite, and he was cooking up an epic breakfast-for-dinner feast. There were scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage patties, bacon, and toast, and a metric shit-ton of all of it.

  Garth smiled at me over his shoulder, then went back to work flipping strips of bacon with a fork.

  I carried my not-so-pleasant burden into the living area and looked around. “Where’s the washer?”

  “Over there,” Garth said, nodding to a long closet on the other side of the entryway. “Careful when you open the door. The cat carrier has a habit of falling off the shelf.”

  “Will do.” I got the laundry started, making a pit stop at my backpack to grab the rest of my clothes and adding them before shutting the washer and closet alike. I headed into the kitchen, poking my nose in here and there around Garth. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Throw a couple plates and some silverware up on the counter? Unless you want to eat at the table . . .” The way he said it made eating at the table sound like the most foreboding thing in the world.

  I shook my head, rummaging through his cabinets and drawers. “The counter works for me.” I pulled a couple of plates from the upper cabinet next to the fridge and found the silverware in the drawer directly below it. How logical. Heading around the island, I set the plates in front of two barstools, arranged the silverware, glanced at Eva, who hadn’t moved from her perch, then headed back into the kitchen for glasses—the water kind, not the booze kind. They were in the next cabinet over from the plates. Like I said, logical.

  “What do you want to drink?” I asked Garth, opening the freezer in search of ice. I found the ice trays in one of the shelves on the door and pulled one out.

  “Orange juice would be great, thanks.” Garth glanced at me again, a secretive smile curving his lips.

  I twisted the ice tray, freeing the ice cubes. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  I set the tray on the counter and picked out five ice cubes, dropping each into my glass with a clink, my gaze straying back to Garth between each one. He was still smiling, almost looking like he was holding in laughter. “Seriously, Garth. What?”

  He chuckled. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just—you look like a kid in my clothes. It’s cute.”

  I scowled, returning the ice cube tray to the freezer. I opened the fridge and grabbed the carton of orange juice and a pitcher of filtered water. I could feel Garth watching me, but I didn’t look his way.

  “That bothered you,” he said, not asking. The amusement was gone from his voice. “Why?”

  I set the water and OJ on the counter by our glasses and bowed my head. My long, wet hair hung around my face in dark, clumpy strands. “I’m thirty-eight years old.”

  “You don’t look a day over eighteen.”

  I turned to face him, my lower back resting against the counter. “Exactly. For the rest of my life, this is what I’ll look like.” I swept a hand down my body, Vanna White–ing myself. “An eternal teenager. It’s super fantastic.” Especially the hormones—that was my absolute favorite part.

  “I can think of worse things, but . . . is that normal for your kind?” Garth’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to the side. “Your sister looks older, like in her twenties. So does Nik.”

  “It’s not normal,” I said, laughing under my breath and shaking my head. “There was an accident. Or, not really an accident, but a matter of life and death. Lex was being held prisone
r, and—well, it’s a long story. We had to force my Nejeret traits to manifest early. Thus”—I held my arms up, posing—“me. Like this. Forever. Perma-jailbait.”

  Garth’s expression was serious as he studied my face. He leaned his hip against the opposite counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

  I fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

  A twinkle sparked in his eye, and I knew the seriousness was fading from the moment. Final-fucking-ly. “You could try out for To Catch a Predator,” Garth said. “They could use you as bait until, oh, say, the end of time.”

  My lips twitched, and I eyed him through my lashes.

  “Imagine the pedophiles’ reactions when they find out you’re really two hundred years old . . .”

  My chest convulsed, and a laugh slipped out. “Stop it,” I said, kicking him lightly with my bare toes.

  He grinned and turned back to the food on the stove. “I can see how that would be annoying, though, at least where dating is concerned. I’d imagine going out with people your own age is off the table.”

  I snorted. “You have no idea.” After a moment, I added, “The tattoos help keep away most guys looking for a girl to fulfill their creeptastic fantasies. It’s hard to look overly innocent when you’re covered in ink.”

  Garth nodded as I spoke. “Your attitude helps, too.”

  I scoffed. “Attitude? Me?”

  He laughed, moving a spatula around a pan filled with scrambling eggs.

  I filled up our glasses, then put the water and OJ back in the fridge.

  “Go ahead and grab a seat,” Garth said, lifting the egg pan from the stove and carrying it over to our plates. He dumped a pretty good pile onto each plate, leaving some in the pan. In no time, both plates were loaded up with a whole lot of everything, and there was still food in reserve. My kind of meal.