by Elle Thorne
The phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. That damned phone shouldn’t be ringing. Two people knew about it. Lana and Tito. That was it. He glanced at the screen then out the windshield. It was almost daylight. Should he answer it? Maybe it was information about Dunn. Information that could help him not have to risk being caught breaking into a morgue.
He looked at the number. No number. The ID only revealed one thing. Caller Unknown. He swiped the screen to answer the call. “Yeah?”
“Slate?” It was Lana. “I need my skills back. Now.” Her voice verged on hysterical.
“I told you I’d—”
“No. You don’t understand. I need to get them now. Where are you?”
Why was she in such a rush all of a sudden? He scrubbed his face, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t lie to her. “I’m at Cinco Ridge. Can you give me a few to check out the morgue, then I’ll come find you?” Would he go hunting for her just to return the skills? No, he couldn’t say he would. He appreciated she wanted her skills returned, but Dunnigan’s life was top priority.
She was silent. It sounded like she was in a car. One that was moving. Could that be?
“Where are you?” he asked in return.
“Doesn’t matter.” Her voice was pinched with icy sarcasm.
Slate tipped his head, studying the morgue, while wondering why she’d become so distant and at the same time so urgent about returning her skills. “Can I call you back? I’d like to check this place out first. After that, I’ll get with you and return your skills.” After he went to Morgan’s Run, of course. Though he wasn’t about to tell her that. He wasn’t about to drive in the opposite direction just to return her skills. That simply didn’t seem like it was imperative. At least, not yet.
“No. Slate, I—”
He swiped to hang up. One of the hardest things he’d ever done. Almost as hard as leaving her had been. He thought of her lips, how they’d been swollen after that kiss. Her eyes, gleaming in the darkness, looking like precious gemstones.
Slate pulled around to the back and parked the car next to an oversized large oak with low branches. The phone started to ring again. He couldn’t have that. He powered the phone down, tossed it onto the seat, climbed out of the truck, and rummaged around the toolbox for something. Anything. There. A crowbar. That should come in handy.
Heading around to the back, he checked for any watchers. His bear’s senses picked nothing up. He sent a silent thank you to Lana for returning his bear to him, then used the crowbar to pry the door open.
A quick glance about didn’t reveal an alarm system to disarm. Did that mean there wasn’t one in place? Or was one hidden? He couldn’t stop to worry about that.
He’d never been in a morgue. Oh, sure he’d seen plenty of them on TV. And this one was much like the ones he’d seen on the screen. Looked like a medical clinic. Except he knew somewhere, in the back, there would be tiny refrigeration units about the size of a coffin. And on those shelves in those units…
He didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to see the vision he’d had come to life—or not life, really. He double-timed it to the rear, slamming through one door that swung open to a wide corridor. At the end of the corridor, a set of stainless steel gleaming double doors with porthole shaped windows set at eye level awaited.
Time’s of the essence he reminded himself, sprinting through the door. They swung in and out, back and forth, though he was already in the area where the bodies would be held.
He scanned the room, taking stock. Table after table, maybe a half-dozen of them peppered the floor. Each of them with a light fixture holding a single halogen bulb directly above the table. All of the lights were off. That didn’t matter. Shifters could see damned well in the dark.
The room itself had tiny windows placed above a man’s head and not quite tall enough for a man to slip through. Hell, a child was all that could slip through those tiny rectangular glass panes. Half of the wall on his left held sinks. Those large industrial sinks one expected to see in a kitchen. Or a laboratory. The other half of that wall was filing cabinets and countertops. The wall on his right was covered with those units, the coffin-sized ones, inserted into a wall, feet-first. The latches reminded him of the ones on his great-grandfather’s beer fridge on the porch. That old fridge with the pull handles. How he recalled as a young one pulling on it and fetching Great-Grand—as they all called the old buzzard—a cold Michelob.
Who would have thought he’d one day be opening these and hoping he didn’t see his brother’s face. Or maybe that was what he wanted to see. Maybe Dunnigan would be in one of these in the midst of a deathbender stasis instead of blown to fucking pieces.
Slate didn’t spare a second. He opened one after another. Many were empty. Many, many. For that he was sort of thankful. Still unsure if he’d rather not find Dunn at all or find him and hope he was in full-on deathbender mode. He found one that held a body. Sliding it out partway, he pulled back the sheet respectfully, silently apologizing to the individual when he noted it wasn’t Dunn. Several more empties. Then another occupied one.
Not Dunn.
Again, an apology and a sigh of relief for the poor soul whose color had faded to a shade of melancholy blueish-brown.
“Three more bins to check, then…” Then what? Morgan’s Run to check into the bits and pieces of a guy who might just be Dunn?
Two of them were empty. One more.
He hadn’t been in the building for more than two minutes. He’d be in and out in two and a half at this rate. He yanked open the last one. Not unoccupied. He pulled the drawer out slightly, just enough to be able to pull the sheet back and reveal the face. A woman. Elderly, smile crinkles speaking of a life spent laughing.
“I’m sorry. Rest in peace,” he told her, knowing full well she couldn’t hear him, but maybe someone up above would forgive him for having trespassed on this place where they should not be disturbed. He cast aside the thoughts of what would happen to the bodies when the examiner began to do his cutting. He didn’t want to think of that happening to these poor people. He drew the sheet back over her face and slid the drawer closed.
Time to hoof it.
Through the steel double doors, down the corridor, to the final single wooden door. He pressed on it, then—
“Halt!”
Slate froze. What the fuck?
“Get your hands up,” a voice said, low and dangerous, from a different part of the lobby than the voice that commanded him to stop.
He glanced to the left then to the right. Four officers. Probably the whole damned force. Except two were local and two were state troopers. When did they get here? They must have been running without lights and sirens. He raised his hands above his head.
“Officers, I wasn’t up to—”
“Really?” the second voice said. “You were what, walking by when you happened to notice an open door and thought, ‘Hey, I’ll just go inside and see if the dead folks need some help’? That about right, son?” The man had a crewcut and hard eyes. Military, seen-action, done-some-killing eyes. He leveled a shotgun at Slate’s chest.
He wasn’t the only one armed with a damned shotgun. Two of the others did, too. The third carried a 45, it looked like, from his vantage point.
Slate clenched his jaw. This was the last damned thing he needed. And sure, he was a shifter, but up against this much weaponry, all at the same time, didn’t bode well for him. At-fucking-all.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he tried again.
“Well, let’s say we’re not going to wait and see what it looks like. You set the alarm off. You broke in. Tell it to the judge when you’re working out the bail details,” the crew-cut said.
“His truck’s not registered,” another one added. “Called the tow truck on it already. It’s on the way.”
Shit. So, they’d noticed the truck. He’d tucked the keys in his pocket. What was the likelihood he could get outside, get in the truck, and head out before they
could catch him? Surely, they’d be able to catch up with that truck in their cruisers before he could get very far. Damn it. Seemed he’d have a greater chance on foot, but not as a human. Screw it.
He stepped toward the officer closest to the glass front door.
“Easy,” the officer cautioned. “Hands against the wall.”
Slate stepped to the wall next to the glass door. He put his hands on the wall and waited for the officer to start frisking him, so he’d be blocking their ability to shoot Slate without hitting the officer. Just as the man had patted Slate’s arms down, then dropped his hands to Slate’s ribcage, Slate shoved out the door and took off at a shifter-speed sprint, zigging and zagging in the dark, heading toward the truck, then darting just as he came up on it.
Shouts and shots filled the air. Bullets zinged by him but not one hit. Ten feet farther and he’d be in the cover of the trees. Then he could shift into his bear.
No one would be looking for a bear, though he needed to be careful they didn’t get trigger-happy and kill a bear.
He reached the tree line, unscathed, then slipped in between the trees.
And shifted.
Chapter Seventeen
“How long before we’re there?” Lana asked Griz. They’d left, just the three of them, her, Griz, and Allegra, in the SUV Allegra had borrowed. Griz had told the shifters he’d been with—Grant, Tanner, and Teague—he had to go check on something and he’d catch up with them later. Now they were headed to Cinco Ridge, where Slate said he was.
Lana hadn’t felt the need to call Tito to ask him to verify Slate was actually in Cinco Ridge. She trusted him. If Slate said that was where he was, then that was where he was.
“Thirty minutes.” Griz glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “I have a question.”
From the backseat, Lana said, “What’s that?”
“Does she let you control when you leach shifter animals away?”
She pondered this. “The first time, it was Slate’s and that took me by surprise, but really, his bear actually initiated the process.”
“And you gave him the bear back?”
“Yes, he needed it so he could take on Saizon. Then I took Saizon’s bear. And that was all me.” She grimaced. “I guess it wasn’t all me, since she’s around” —Allegra didn’t want to say since she’s in me, possessing me, so around seemed the safest way to say it— “and it was my choice when I sent his bear back.”
“What about with my bear? No choice?”
“God, no, Griz. I’d never have done that. I fought it—her—as much as I could. She’s strong.”
Allegra swiveled in her seat, gazing at both of them. “How do you know about her, Griz?”
“I ran into her when I was—” He looked at Allegra, and his tone changed. “I ran into her a few years after I lost the battle with Salvatore. I was in New Orleans, actually. I was doing some work for the Shifter Council. I’d gone to Quake—it’s this restaurant there, anyway, that’s another story—I’d gone to Quake and was meeting with a very old witch, a shifter, and a vampire. Damn, this sounds like one of those bad jokes that start with a shifter, a witch, and a vampire walked into a bar.”
Allegra smiled, put her hand on his arm. “You’re avoiding. You’re misdirecting the topic, making bad jokes.”
He grunted. “Yeah. Well, the shifter died. All because of that Nephraline. The witch was in a battle to save me when another witch stepped in and…well, I’m here.” He shrugged. “As I said, the other shifter didn’t get so lucky.”
“What else?” Lana pushed. There had to be more to the story.
“The other witch…well, you know her, it’s Leandra…had some help from her cousin and managed to trap Nephraline in a glass bottle. I have no clue why she’s loose again. I’ll have to ask Leandra. After we get your skills back from Slate so you’re not going all haywire on us, trying to leach our animals.”
“Will she help me? Will she bottle her back up?”
“I’m sure she will. The thing I’m wondering…why didn’t she destroy Nephraline? Could she? Or…” Another shrug. “I’ll call her after we get your situation defused a bit. Anyway, Leandra and Sidonie put this spell, enchantment, whatever, on me during the battle with Nephraline. It made me immune to Nephraline’s efforts to leach my bear. Seems it’s still lasting.”
“Well, we can’t exactly ask her to enchant every shifter we know,” Allegra countered.
“Hence, we have to get her back in a place that renders her helpless. Though I wonder,” he continued, “why do you think she didn’t try to take your dragon? She didn’t, right? The whole time you were together? She didn’t?”
“She did not,” Allegra said.
“At all,” Lana confirmed. “I never felt that tug I feel when she’s pulling a shifter animal to me.”
“I think it has something to do with souls,” Griz said. “Like she’s a soul thief, but of shifter animal souls. Her mother was Ammit. Supposedly a demoness who stole or ate hearts or something like that. I wish I’d asked Leandra more about her. About what she did with her after. I was just happy to make it through the ordeal.”
Lana wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the matter if they managed to get Nephraline out of her. She’d want to know exactly where the vessel they kept her in was. Who was guarding it, all of that. And she’d want to know it was in a different city—hell, maybe a different country—than she was.
“Cinco Ridge,” Griz said. “First stop, morgue, right?”
“Yes.” She’d told him about the visions. She’d told him about Tito being involved. Hell, she’d told him everything. Griz had said the one thing that had convinced her he could be trusted. That he was loyal to his own. And she was now one of his own.
Allegra pulled up the destination on her phone. Not that it was hard to find. This town wasn’t much larger in size than Morgan’s Run had been.
“So, who do the cops think blew up the morgue in Morgan’s Run? Was Slate’s brother there?”
“They’re still sussing it out. I hope not. Hate to hear it was him that died. He was—is—one of the good ones.”
“There, that’s it.” Allegra pointed.
“Why are a bunch of cop cars there?” Lana frowned. Just then a tow truck passed them. “Damn it. That’s the pickup Tito gave us.”
“Fuck.” Griz pulled the truck to the side and exited, followed by Lana and Allegra. “Sheriff.” Griz held out his hand. “Looking for the driver of that pickup.” Then Griz pulled out a badge.
“What?” Lana whispered to Allegra. “I didn’t know he was law enforcement.”
“Was just deputized by the sheriff in Bear Canyon Valley when Saizon showed up searching for Slate Youngblood. Wanted to be legal. Just in case.”
“Lucky us, then.”
The sheriff of Cinco Ridge studied the badge. “You have business with him? He broke into the morgue.”
“We’re looking for him, assisting the feds.”
Lana side-eyed Allegra.
A tiny smile almost crept to Allegra’s lips. “He might be stretching the truth just a little. Maybe not exactly assisting the feds.” She elbowed Lana and delivered a sly wink.
“So, where is Youngblood?” Griz asked.
“Slipped away. Into the forest. But he’s bleeding.”
A gasp—half of one—slipped out before Lana could catch herself. She coughed to cover it up.
“Why’s he bleeding?”
The sheriff nodded toward a uniformed officer with a crew cut. “He’s a good shot. That’s why. But he’s bleeding and in the forest. Bear bait. Cougar bait. I doubt he’ll make it the night.”
Lana fumed, fighting to hold her rage back. Allegra squeezed her arm, pulled her back slightly. “You’ve got to relax. He’s a bear shifter. Apex predator. Probably will shift to heal. Stop stressing. You’re practically telegraphing that you’re personally invested in this.” She drew her face close to Lana’s. “And clearly you are. Very invested. Very much so on a per
sonal level.”
Lana nodded. “But what will we do?”
“Leave it to Griz. He’s good at what he does. Damned good. He’ll take care of this.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. We’ll get out of your hair for now. I’ll probably go looking for him shortly.”
The sheriff rested his hands on his gun belt. “We’ve called Bill Shelton. He’s got hounds. We’ll be going out at nine this morning, when he gets here. You’re welcome to question him in our jail. You can let the feds know, too.”
“Will do.” Griz herded them toward the SUV. Once they were inside, he turned to Lana. “I’ll be going out myself. Like Allegra said, he’s probably shifted—”
“You heard that?”
His smile was grim. He pointed to his ear. “Shifter hearing, so yeah. I’ll be shifting, too. Let’s just drive a bit out of sight. I’ll pull over down a country road and track him by scent. I’ll bring him back. It’ll be fine.”
“What if he’s—” Lana didn’t want to finish her sentence.
“He’s not. Shifters don’t die easily.”
Chapter Eighteen
Gut shot.
In bear form, Slate heaved himself over a massive log. He’d taken two rounds in the abdomen. Probably would have killed a mortal man. But luckily, he was no mortal. He’d shifted into his bear shortly after he hit the tree line, but not before he’d taken those bullets in his midsection.
Motherfuckers.
His bear grunted in agreement, that was the only sound in the forest. Dawn’s creeping tendrils of light were trying to make their way through the thick foliage cast by evergreens, oaks, maples, and elms. He dropped to the ground, leaning against the log. He’d heal from this. It wouldn’t—
The world began to spin. He groaned inside his bear. Damn. He was getting another one of Lana’s visions. He’d thought he would get a break from them while shifted into his bear form, but no such luck. Nope, not in the least.
Fella can’t get a break, by damn.