It was her father, brothers, and several of her aunts around the kitchen table. Normally nothing weird. The kitchen table was where they always met to talk, argue, and occasionally eat. The dining room was for holiday dinners or, as her mom put it, “fancy meals.” But what really worried her was that as soon as Cella walked in, they all stopped talking and faced her, gazing at her. Her family didn’t stop talking for anything. Malones were not known for being a quiet breed of feline.
“Hi,” she said, wondering what the hell was going on.
Cella’s father, Butch “Nice Guy” Malone, walked over to her and gave Cella a big hug, softly murmuring, “Don’t ever forget, baby, we’ll always love you.”
“Okay,” Cella said, pulling away from her father and nodding at her family before walking out.
She went across the backyard, around the Olympic-size family pool, and into the connected backyard of her best friend’s family. Cella hadn’t met Jai Davis, a mountain lion originally from Valley Stream, Long Island, until they were both seventeen and very pregnant. But they’d become friends quickly with both of them being feline and teen moms. As soon as the girls were born, the pair had teamed up, sharing responsibilities when they could, and covering for each other when necessary. It wasn’t normal for Malones to allow outsiders into their world, but her father had accepted the Davises without question, which meant all the Malone males accepted them without question. And when Cella’s third cousins moved out, returning to a Malone campsite in Boston and leaving the house next door available, the Davises had moved in.
Although, how Cella’s father had talked not only Juen Davis, Jai’s mom, into making the move, but had convinced his sisters to allow outsiders onto their street, Cella still didn’t know. But her father did have a way.
Yet Cella had never been more grateful for her father’s smooth-talking ways as she was the moment she walked into the Davis kitchen and asked, “Am I dying?”
Jai Davis, working on paperwork at the kitchen table, didn’t even look up as she replied, “Yes. Although to be accurate we all are.”
Cella rolled her eyes. That was the only downside of the Davis family. They were intellectuals. Juen Davis was a lawyer, Jai’s father had been a heart surgeon before his death five years ago, and Jai was an orthopedic surgeon with a side specialty in artery repair. Necessary for her job as head of the entire medical staff of the Sports Center, where most shifter games, pro and minor, for the tri-state area were played—and where many arteries were severely damaged.
“Well,” Cella pushed, “am I literally dying? You know. This moment. From a tumor or something you haven’t told me about?”
Jai finally raised her head and studied Cella. They had similarly colored eyes: bright gold, although there was no green in Jai’s. Otherwise, they couldn’t look more different. Jai was black and Asian while Cella couldn’t be more Irish if she’d come from Ellis Island with the word “Irish” stamped across her forehead. “Why would you think you are?”
“Because my family just met me in the kitchen to tell me they love me. My family.”
“My mother tells me that all the time.”
“My mother wasn’t there, and your mother is a well-balanced, normal woman who can shift into animal form. She’s not descended from gypsies. Nor was your father.”
“Nope. Third generation Chinese me mum, and daddy was good ol’ Jamaican. And I thought Malones preferred ‘Traveller’ to gypsy.”
“I can call my damn family whatever I want to. Does it look like I give a shit about any of that right now?”
“I’m still not clear on why you think you’re dying.”
“Because”—Cella rubbed her forehead, still hungover and beginning to panic—“when the Malones come at ya, and are nice ... someone’s dying!”
After dinner with his team to celebrate another devastating loss to shifters in the Long Island Fire Department, Crush got home, tossed his equipment and clothes into a corner, and took a quick shower. Once clean, he sat on his bed, a towel around his waist, his sidearm within easy reach. He shook his hair out to dry it before dropping back on the bed, letting out a breath, and smiling.
“Hello, sexy,” he said. “You lucked out tonight. No other females to keep me from you.” He crooked a finger. “Now come over here and keep me company.”
Lola moved in, snuggling up against his side. At least tomorrow morning Crush wouldn’t be waking up with any unknown felines wrapped around him. It was kind of a relief really ... while at the same time strangely disappointing.
“Don’t drool on me tonight,” he warned Lola, the English Bulldog. “You know I hate that.”
She snorted, as always completely ignoring what he’d just told her, and rolled to her back, belly exposed. Like most animals, Lola knew what Crush was, but she trusted him. Knew he’d never hurt her.
With Crush rubbing her pink-and-white exposed belly, Lola fell asleep almost immediately, but it took Crush another hour, even though he was exhausted down to his bones. But he knew the following week his life would change—and he still wasn’t happy about it.
CHAPTER THREE
After four solid days of waiting and not wanting to spend another day—or even worse, an entire weekend—anticipating the anvil about to drop on his head, Crush went to his boss’s office and stood silently in the man’s doorway. Miller had his back to him, going through his files, when he suddenly tensed, his entire body going rigid. His reaction didn’t shock Crush, though; the man had the same reaction every time the polar was around.
Slowly, Miller lifted his head and looked over his shoulder, then swallowed. “Crushek.”
“Cap.”
“Uh, yeah ...” He went to his desk, but didn’t sit down. He never sat down around Crush. Instead, he always looked like he was about to make a run for it. Good luck with that. Crush was an incredibly fast runner. Great swimmer, too.
“You’ve been transferred.”
“So I heard.”
“Sorry about the delay. I was just waiting for the final paperwork to come in.” And he’d been working up the guts, too. Wuss.
Already knowing the answer, Crush still asked, “And Conway?”
“Stays here.”
The captain picked up a folder from his desk and handed it over to Crush. His hand shook.
Crush didn’t take the folder, simply looked at it and back at his captain.
“The ... the transfer is effective immediately”—and the man looked relieved by that—“so feel free to, um ... go.”
“I think we should discuss—”
“This isn’t up for discussion, Crushek. It’s from the top. You gotta beef, take it up with them. Just leave your case notes and Conway will take care of the rest.”
The captain sounded tough until Crush growled a little. He couldn’t help it. He was annoyed. Really, truly annoyed.
The captain looked moments from shitting himself right then, but Crush took the folder before he had to see that.
Yet, before walking out, Crush still chuffed. A big one, the power of it sending his ex-boss stumbling back a bit. It was a shit move, but still kind of satisfying.
Cella was doing pull-ups in the gym when her phone went off. She dropped to the ground and pulled it out of the pocket of the hoodie she had lying on the floor. “Yeah?” she said around the panting.
“It’s Smith.”
“Yeah?”
“You busy?”
“Working out. Home game tomorrow night.”
“So is that a yes or a no to my question?”
“What do you want, Smith?”
Dee-Ann Smith was the She-wolf Cella had trained with when she’d joined the shifter-only Marine Unit. And, at the time, she’d hated her. But years later, after they’d been forced to work together—Smith was part of the nationally based Group, an organization that protected all species and breeds—the wolf had managed to grow on her. Still, some days, Smith still got on Cella’s last Irish nerve.
“Meet me in
Brooklyn.”
When the wolf didn’t give an address before disconnecting the call, Cella knew that Smith wanted to meet at the NYPD precinct in Brooklyn for the shifter division. Of course, the difficult She-wolf could have just said that.
Cella pulled on her hoodie, zipped it up, and grabbed a towel. She was heading for the stairs to the lower level of the gym, wiping sweat off her face, when a big male stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
Cella looked at the wolf in front of her, waiting for him to say something.
“Darlin’.”
“Hillbilly.”
He grinned. “Cella Malone, are you flirtin’ with me?”
“What d’ya want, Reed?” Reece Lee Reed of the New York Smith Pack had made the hard-won leap from the minors to the majors back when they’d signed Bo Novikov. And the pair had been at each other ever since. Reed, the more personable of the two, had the loyalty of the team. Novikov, the more ruthless, had no problem beating the living shit out of Reed anytime the kid annoyed him. And Reed annoyed Novikov constantly. The grey wolf knew it, too. That was the thing about the Smith Pack wolves. They seemed to enjoy fucking with people as much as the felines did.
“You need to handle him,” he replied.
“Handle him? Novikov?”
“Yeah.”
She glanced around. “Why me?”
“What do you mean why you? You’re the only one on the team who can hold a conversation with the man.”
God, that country accent. So irritating. Not so bad on Dee-Ann Smith, also of the Smith Pack, because she wasn’t wasn’t much of a talker, so Cella didn’t have to hear that annoying accent more than was necessary. Reed, however ... chatty.
“Look—”
“I’m asking you, darlin’, to help us out.”
“Us?”
“Yeah. Us. The rookies.”
“You’ve been on the team a little long to be called a rookie. In fact, you’ve been on longer than I have.”
“Exactly. And yet you’re considered one of the gang by Lordship Pain in the Ass, and the rest of us are considered worthless scum.”
“That’s not true. I’m sure that, um ... did you know you’re bleeding from the head?”
“I can feel it drippin’. Do you know why I’m bleeding from the head?”
“Because you were hit there?”
“With a row of bleachers from the training rink.”
“A row of ... you mean actual bleachers?”
“Yeah. Actual bleachers. That homicidal maniac”—and that could only be Novikov—“pried actual bleachers from their steel moorings and threw them at us.”
“Did he perhaps give you a reason why he thought that was okay?”
“I was minding my own business, gettin’ ready for tomorrow night’s game.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But Hammond, that new kid, decided to rally the boys and go to Novikov to ask for some tips so they could perform at their best and not let him down.”
Cella cringed, easily imagining exactly what happened because she knew all the idiot males involved so well. “Uh-huh.”
“So Novikov starts yellin’ at ’em, but Hammond wouldn’t back down. Kept pushin’, kept nippin’, as them little foxes are wont to do, which is why they’re not allowed on Smith territory.”
“And?” she pushed.
“I tried to get Hammond to let it go. Move on. He wouldn’t. Next thing I know, I hear metal being ripped away from concrete and by the time I look up, bleachers are flying at my head!”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. Take a breath.” Cella patted his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Novikov.”
“Do something, Cella, because I’m this close to callin’ in all the Reeds to come here and start kicking some mutt ass.”
“Now, now. Let’s not get nasty. That’s my job.” She reached up and touched Reed’s forehead, the wolf shying away from her. “Go see Jai about that. She should be in her office.”
“It’ll heal.”
“If that gets infected, you’ll get the fever, and she’ll pull you from tomorrow’s game and then Novikov has more ammo against you. Don’t give it to him.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” He smirked, his anger slipping away, the cute, flirty wolf quickly returning. “Think Dr. D. will let me cuddle if I ask her nice?”
“No.”
“What about you? Wanna cuddle? Help me heeeeal?”
Rolling her eyes, Cella turned and headed to the stairs.
“That ain’t real friendly, Malone,” Reed called after her.
Division director, unit commander, and black bear sow Lynsey Gentry looked up from the files on her desk and smiled at the polar bear taking up a lot of her doorway. Although, thankfully, this building had been created with shifters in mind, so the doorways were taller and wider and the chairs sturdier.
She motioned to one of those sturdy chairs in front of her desk. “Sit.”
With a heavy sigh, the polar walked into her office.
“Well, I’d like to say welcome,” she began once he’d dropped down across from her, but when Crushek only scowled—more—and kind of grunted, she knew the man wouldn’t be making this easy on her. He was one of the few shifters on the force who’d never asked for a transfer into her “Division with No Name” as Dez MacDermot liked to call it. The man loved what he did, but things had changed and he would have to roll with it. Especially now.
“Let’s lay this on the table,” Lynsey said, deciding to cut straight through the bullshit. “You didn’t ask to be here. I know that. I know you like working undercover. I get it. But you’re needed here. There’s no getting around that. So, and I say this with kindness, suck it up and get over it already.”
The scowl worsened, only now it was tinged with confusion. “How is that with kindness?”
“When you get to know me, you’ll realize that it really is.” She briefly tossed up her hands. “I demanded your transfer, because you’re needed here.”
“Needed for what? I don’t kill on order.”
“Neither do we.” When he scoffed, she added, “I don’t speak for The Group or KZS. They have their own agendas.”
“Then why do you work with them?”
“Because they get shit done while we keep order.”
“Keep order? Don’t you mean we cover their tracks?”
“If necessary.”
“I’m not a trashman, Captain. I don’t clean up after killers.”
“It’s Chief Gentry.” Lynsey leaned back. “And are you comfortable up there on your high horse, Crushek?”
“I just mean—”
“You sit there in your safe little world—”
“With drug dealers and gun-running biker gangs?”
“—and you’re completely unaware of what’s going on with your own.”
Crushek nodded. “Right. We’re being hunted. But we’re always being hunted.”
“That shit’s only part of it, and that’s really what The Group and KZS are for. They handle the big-game hunters and the lowlife dogfighters. Sometimes we step in and clean up to protect ourselves, and other times—”
“And other times what?’
“And other times we’ve got our own troubles among our own kind.”
“You want me to arrest—”
“When they’re doing something illegal, yes, I want you to arrest our own kind. Let’s face it. Our kind can get away with a lot of shit because they’re big, mean, and will eat the witnesses. Or, at the very least, get the hyenas to eat the witnesses.” She picked up a stack of folders she hadn’t managed to go through yet. “We’ve got meth dealers, bookies, hitters, leg breakers.” She dropped the folders. “And do you think we can really send in a bunch of full-humans to take down a hyena-run meth ring? Or bear-run bookmakers?”
“We’ve never got in their way before.”
“Of course we have, but in this day and age, it’s harder to protect all our kind unless we can get there first. Unless we deal with
it first.”
The polar, agitated, folded his arms over his chest. “So you didn’t hire me to ...”
“To what?”
Crush shook his head. “Nothing. What do you need me for exactly?”
“I brought you here because of your stellar record. You’re good, Crushek. And I was tired of waiting for you to get off your ass and see it was time for you to move to the next level. Okay?”
“Yeah.” The polar’s big arms loosened and he gazed directly at her. “So ... who am I going to be partnered with now?”
“Well ... you get along with MacDermot, don’t you?”
Cella met Smith at the front door of the Brooklyn precinct. As always, being cat and dog, they sized each other up.
“My, my, someone looks casual,” Smith remarked, looking over Cella’s seen-better-days sweats.
“And I thought Levi stopped making that particular style of jeans in 1976,” she shot back.
Grinning, they walked into the precinct and Chuck, the guard manning the front desk, glared at both of them. “No fighting on the elevator,” he warned them.
“Who? Us?” Cella asked before the doors closed.
And once the doors closed ... ?
Cella swung first, connecting with Smith’s shoulder. The She-wolf growled and swung back. The pair quickly put each other in headlocks and stayed that way until the elevator stopped at the eighth floor. The doors slid open and Dez MacDermot was there with a cardboard box in her hands.
She gave an annoyed sigh. “Both of you cut it out!”
She stepped into the elevator, forcing her way between the pair. “Honestly. Can’t take you bitches anywhere.”
“The dog started it,” Cella quickly stated.
MacDermot stared at her. “Really? Chuck?” she called out.
“It was the feline,” the guard said over the elevator’s speaker.
Smith laughed and Cella rolled her eyes. “Everybody’s a goddamn rat... .”
The elevator doors opened again and the trio stepped out on the ninth floor. On each floor of this building the cops handled different crimes or research, mostly specific to shifters. But the ninth floor housed the elite team members and detectives. MacDermot had proved she belonged on this floor a long time ago.
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