Chasing Thunderbird

by J. Leigh Bailey

  Yeah, Matthew Jones was up to something. He was one more thing to add to my list of oddities. Not that I needed more.

  My phone pinged with an incoming text.

  I better see you at Buddy’s.

  The command really shouldn’t have thrilled me. After all, I wasn’t the kind of person who blindly accepted and followed orders. But with Ford, I was 88 percent convinced his mile-wide protective streak was a sign that he actually cared.

  I typed out my response.

  On my way.

  I cringed when I realized I was going to have to explain to Ford everything that had happened with Matthew. He was not going to be pleased.

  I returned to my office, packed my laptop into my shoulder bag, grabbed the sticky note reminder about my car, and then locked up again. I’d use the fifteen minutes it would take me to walk to Buddy’s to figure out how to explain the debacle in my office to Ford in a way that wouldn’t set him off.

  I PULLED open the door to Buddy’s fifteen minutes later with no clearer understanding of what, exactly, I was going to tell Ford. I wasn’t going to hide anything, since Ford had somehow become an integral part of this mess. I still wasn’t sure how that happened. I also didn’t know why he cared. We’d only met a couple of weeks ago, and it wasn’t until the last day or three that we’d spent any real time together. Which meant hooking up with him last night had happened a lot quicker than was normal for me. Usually I’d been seeing a guy for a little while before the clothes came off. Not that there’d been a whole lot of opportunity, not with my academic schedule. But still.

  The warm mocha-scented air thawed my frozen face. The sight of Ford manning an espresso machine heated up lower body parts. He glanced up at the jangle of the bell and nodded in acknowledgment, his face a stern mask. He tilted his head toward the table we’d sat at the other night when I’d freaked out all over him. I really needed to stop doing that.

  I headed to the back table, following directions like a good boy. That was another thing I needed to stop doing. Ford might be some alpha shifter—and I vowed I wouldn’t stop until I knew exactly what he shifted into—but I was not some spineless mope who waited for people to tell me what to do. Just because I found it sexy when Ford did it….

  Buddy’s was an interesting venue. Now that panic wasn’t muddling my brain, I could appreciate the casual look of the place. The walls were mostly old posters and tackboards covered in announcements. The tables and seating were made up of a hodgepodge collection of garage-sale castoffs and the occasional duct-tape-mended banquette. They used waist-high bookshelves to separate different sections, and a huge fireplace blazed along one wall. I could see myself spending a lot of time here. And not just because of Ford.

  I settled in at the table and pulled out a notebook. Eventually I’d need to replace my stolen journal, but until then, I’d make do with a basic spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook. I started jotting down random reminders, including pick up car and call about thermostat, along with Matthew Jones—shifter or bad guy or paranoid or all of the above??? and some names of possible contacts relating to the Tumbleweed article.

  A white ceramic mug appeared next to my notebook and was joined by a monster-sized oatmeal cookie. Ford leaned over me, forest-green apron tied around his waist. He pointed to the bullet with Matthew’s name. “What the hell?”

  Well, so much for figuring out how to bring it up.

  Ford scooted over and slid into the chair opposite me. He glanced around quickly before leaning in. “Pretty Boy? Definitely not a shifter.”

  “How do you know? Is it a scent thing? Were you ever close enough to him to smell him?”

  “I didn’t smell him, but there are other things that you can look for.”

  I forgot all about odd happenings. It was my turn to lean close. “Really? Like what?”

  Ford muttered a curse and pushed back. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You’re probably going to start examining everyone you meet now to discover possible signs of”—his eyes darted around the area again—“otherness.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “Honestly, now that I know about”—it was my turn to make sure we were still alone—“you, I don’t think I could help myself. But I promised not to tell anyone or record my findings like it was some kind of species-tracking endeavor.” I placed my hand on his wrist, needing the connection. “You can trust me that far.”

  I was trusting Ford with a lot. I needed his trust in return.

  He stiffened, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing. I pulled back, my first thought that he wasn’t out and that he didn’t want me touching him in public, no matter how casually. But then he grabbed my wrist and yanked it to his face, inhaling deeply. I tugged against his grip, pretty sure him sniffing me like a dog would make us stand out as much as anything else could, but he didn’t let go.

  He half stood and faced the front counter. “Donnie!”

  A door behind the register opened, and Donnie peeked out. His shaggy hair looked even more disheveled than usual, and a pencil rested behind his ear. “Seriously?”

  As much as their relationship intrigued me—two more different people I couldn’t imagine—and as much as their brother-like bickering entertained me, we were drawing attention from the handful of patrons. “What’re you doing?” I asked under my breath.

  Ford looked down at me, then took in the interested bystanders. More softly, but just as insistent, he said, “Donnie, can you help me out with something?”

  Donnie scrubbed his hands over his face but squeezed past the girl running the register to come over to us.

  Hooking an ankle around a nearby chair leg, Ford hauled an empty seat to the table. “Sit.”

  Donnie glowered at him. “I’m kind of in the middle of things, Mr. Bossy Pants.”

  I snorted and picked an edge of the oatmeal cookie with my free hand. I popped the morsel into my mouth and watched “Mr. Bossy Pants” and the irreverent coyote shifter have a silent battle of wills. Then I groaned, because, damn, an oatmeal cookie was not supposed to taste that good. I broke off a bigger piece and nibbled away.

  Finally Donnie broke eye contact and sat in the chair. Ford shoved my captured arm at Donnie. “Smell.”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Did you really—”

  Donnie looked taken aback. “Um, dude, you know that’s a little random, right?”

  “Damn it, this is serious.” Ford rolled his eyes. “Just smell his arm. There’s something there I can’t quite pinpoint. You’re better at the scent thing.”

  “Bet that was hard to say.” Donnie’s lips twitched, but his eyes narrowed in concern. He took a quick peek around the room before bringing my arm closer to his face.

  Man, with all the looking around we were doing, one of us, maybe all of us, was going to get a repetitive motion injury.

  He’d barely inhaled before Donnie reared back.

  “There’s something there, right?” Ford asked.

  “Yeah, a whole cocktail of weird.” Donnie wrinkled his nose.

  I flattened my free palm on the table. “Um, guys? You’re starting to freak me out a little.”

  “So, yeah. Couple of things. There’s the base scent, which is all you. But layered on top of that is overwhelming coffee—did you bathe in it or something?”

  “Or something. Spilled a cup.”

  Donnie glowered at me, but it was a playful look, no real anger in it. “First, spilling coffee is practically a sacrilege, but since it wasn’t Buddy’s coffee, that’s okay. But there’s no excuse for chain-brand coffee when Buddy’s is right here.”

  I threw my free hand up defensively; both Donnie and Ford still had hold of my other one. “Hey, it was a gift. I didn’t buy it.”

  “Good. Coffee keeps us in business, and I need this business to pay for school.” Donnie shot another speaking glance at Ford. “But there’s something in this coffee that worries me. You said it was a gift. From who?”

  Unease started to creep up
my spine again. Despite his casual, lighthearted demeanor, Donnie’s concern was clear and it was starting to make me nervous.

  Before I could answer his question, though, Ford grunted. “Pretty Boy.” His fingers tightened on my wrist.

  I dipped my chin. “Yeah. Matthew stopped by, brought some coffee.”

  Thunder rumbled outside, and the hair on my arms stood on end.

  Donnie hissed something under his breath that I didn’t quite catch, but Ford loosened his grip.

  Donnie let go of my hand altogether. Ford didn’t. He kept it trapped on his side of the table. I couldn’t tell if he knew he still held it, or if he just really wanted to hold it. Since I found the touch comforting, I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it.

  Donnie rested his arms on the table in front of him. “There was something in the coffee. Something medicinal. It reminded me of the tranquilizer darts those guys used on me last fall.”

  Tranquilizer darts? First an undercover weapons-trafficking boyfriend, an assassin, and now tranquilizer darts? Someday I was going to sit down with Donnie to get the whole story. But…. “Tranquilizers? In the coffee?”

  Donnie nodded.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Coffee isn’t a logical vehicle for a tranquilizer. Caffeine in the coffee would counteract almost any sedative they could give.”

  “Not if the coffee was decaf.” Ford’s voice was rough. He turned to Donnie. “Can you tell?”

  Donnie huffed. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. Telling decaf from regular would be tough enough by smell if I had a sample of each at hand. But from a leftover scent on someone’s skin? Not a chance.”

  Ford sighed. I guessed he’d expected something like that. “Is there anything else?”

  Donnie cringed. “Yeah, and it’s not good either.”

  Damn it. My stomach twisted. If this kept up, I was going to need some kind of antianxiety medication to escape this semester unscathed. “What?”

  “You know how the car and your house had the same scent markers? And they were close to the assassin who almost killed my boyfriend?”

  “Yep.” Not like I could forget.

  “Well, there are traces of those same scent markers on your skin. In fact,” he said as I felt the blood drain from my face, “what I’m picking up on you is the same scent—exact same—that was on your car. So whoever you touched today is the same person who slashed your tires.”

  Ford surged to his feet. “That bastard.” In his rush to stand, he’d let go of my arm, thankfully, or I’d have been hauled up with him. He spun, fury blasting off him in waves. His hair swung out behind him like wings or a cape, and though I knew it had to be a play of the light, it looked like shadows were coalescing behind him as well, making him look bigger, broader.

  The light-and-shadows special effects would have been startling enough, if it weren’t for his eyes. They glowed. No longer the dark, nearly black-brown of the coffee he served, they blazed with a yellow-gold fire. Then his irises went platinum pale, with ice blue shards near the pupils. I held my breath and cataloged the details, recognizing in some part of my awestruck brain that I maybe should be worried. It wasn’t until Donnie stood and held out a cautioning hand that I realized shit was about to get real inside a café surrounded by regular people.

  I jumped up, reaching for Ford.

  “Stop.” Donnie stepped between Ford and me, keeping me from touching Ford.

  Ford lowered his head and rumbled deep in his chest.

  Donnie stepped aside, hands still up in a placating gesture. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Seriously, Ford. This isn’t the time or place for this. You can’t shift here.”

  I sucked in air through my nose. This was Ford shifting? The other shifters I’d seen—though Donnie and Bethany were a limited sample, to be sure—had morphed from human to animal in one second to the next. They hadn’t exuded this kind of raw energy, and I hadn’t been able to see changes like the color fluctuations in Ford’s eyes.

  His lip twitched, an Elvis-worthy sneer, that preceded another rumbling growl.

  Ignoring Donnie’s hissed warning, I closed the distance between Ford and me and placed my hands against his chest. There was a small jolt, like the one I’d felt in Tierney’s office the day we’d met. Shocks tingled up through my forearms and into my shoulders. But the contact seemed to ground Ford. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips tight, and took several long, even breaths. A moment later he blinked his eyes open, his irises back to their regular dark brown.

  He covered my hands, keeping them pressed tight to his chest for a minute. “I’m okay now,” he said, his voice raspy.

  “Dude, what the hell’s gotten into you?” Donnie tried to nudge Ford back into his seat. “I’ve never seen you lose control like that. And in front of humans.”

  Ford shoveled his hair away from his face and sank into the chair. He didn’t answer the question. “To be clear, you’re saying Pretty Boy tried to drug Simon’s coffee. Pretty Boy is also responsible for the slashed tires on Simon’s car. He’s also tied in some way to the people who trashed Simon’s house. And these people are in some way tied to some assassin chick who tried to kill William. Does that sum it up?”

  “That’s about it.” Donnie tucked his hands into his pockets.

  “A couple more pieces of the puzzle to add.” I held up a finger as though I was in a lecture hall. “Pretty Boy—Matthew,” I corrected because it felt damn strange to refer to the man as Pretty Boy. “Matthew has also expressed an interest in being either a research assistant, or a collaborator, on my thunderbird studies.” I decided now was not the time to share Matthew’s theory about Ford-the-drug-dealer.

  Donnie jumped, but Ford’s scowl kept him silent.

  I tried to ignore the interplay but knew I’d study their actions later. “Which ties into the stolen journal and the calls my grandfather got.”

  Donnie whistled between his teeth. “Why does it feel like we’re getting more questions than answers?”

  “There’re always more questions than answers.” I shrugged. “But there are always answers. We just have to pull at the knot of strings to find out how they’re all connected.”

  “Well, you guys are the scientists. I’m just a barista.” Donnie examined the line at the counter. “Speaking of. If you’re good now, I’ve got to get back to work. Food cost reports don’t reconcile themselves. I’ll talk to William tonight. He might have some clue.”

  Ford grunted an assent, which made Donnie smile. “Coffee and drugs isn’t all I smelled, by the way.”

  Ford narrowed his eyes.

  “What else?” I asked. I don’t think I could handle more. Weren’t drugs and assassins and Ford’s nearly catastrophic loss of control enough for the evening?

  Donnie’s grin was pure wickedness. “Sex.”

  I blanched.

  Donnie strolled past, ruffling a cursing Ford’s hair on his way. “Glad to know you still have it in you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I FELL forward to bang my head against the table. No doubt my face was glowing fuchsia. “So… your roommate could tell that we… you know… fooled around based on my scent? I could have gone my whole life without knowing that. I may never be able to look him in the eyes again.”

  When Ford didn’t respond—though, to be fair, I didn’t know what I expected him to say—I peeked up at him.

  He smirked at me, the jerk. “Which part weirds you out? That he knows we messed around or that he smelled it?”

  “Both. Neither. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got more important things to figure out.”

  He sobered. “Yeah.”

  I folded my hands together, then separated them to pick up and twirl my pencil. I’d never been a fidgeter, but given the circumstances, I guess a little useless twiddling and fiddling was understandable. “I’m not used to this. I’ve always been the one who knows things. I’ve always been able to make a plan and
follow through, no matter the situation. But right now I’m completely lost. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know to handle it. I don’t even have enough information to formulate a hypothesis, let alone brainstorm a solution.”

  Ford covered my restless hands with his. “Every piece of the puzzle brings the final image closer to the surface.”

  “That’s real philosophical of you. But using your metaphor, right now we’re doing a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle without any edges or corners. Every time we turn around, the situation grows more and more complicated.”

  “I think I’ve gotten a hold of some of those edges for you.”

  I inched forward in my seat. “Those phone calls you made?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited a moment. “Are you going to explain?”

  He combed his fingers through his hair and checked around the dining room. As far as I could tell, no one new had arrived. Either he was waiting for someone or he was stalling. Or, I guessed he might just be double-checking for the sixtieth time that no one was eavesdropping. “This isn’t a good place to talk about it. When I get off work, I can go through it with you.”

  I slouched in the chair, arching a brow the way I found so infuriating when he did it. “Are you also going to explain what happened a couple of minutes ago?” I gestured to my face. “That was you about to”—I leaned forward to whisper the rest—“shift, right? Why didn’t it look like that when Donnie or Bethany changed?”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line, masking their erotic shape. Damn, the things that man could do with those lips…. He didn’t say anything, just met my stare.

  I flashed my widest and brightest smile. It was all teeth and totally fake. “I guess we’re going to have lots to talk about, then, aren’t we?”

  “Look, Simon, there are some things I can’t talk about. I can try to explain some of that.” He gestured vaguely to the space next to our table. “But I won’t be able to give you the answers—all the answers—you’re looking for.”