by C. D. Gorri
Look at me being all sappy.
He shook his head and smiled. He loved his adopted family till his heart felt like it would burst, but just thinking about the littlest mouse in the DiCarlo house made him shudder.
Tony was no old man! He was in his prime at thirty-six years young. He had a good job, an important one. It was gratifying and hard work. He wouldn’t change it, but if he were being totally honest, he’d admit that just lately, he wondered if he didn’t want more.
He had the house, the car, the job, and the location, a short twenty-eight-minute drive to the Jersey shore town where he’d spent every summer in his youth. Maccon City was a little too full of wolf shifters to make his inner beast feel settled, so he’d opted for the quiet town of Summerville.
Still, was all of this enough? Not really. At this point in his life, he’d thought he’d have more than this empty house after a hard day’s work. Someone to share a meal with, a glass of wine, and of course, a cup of espresso.
Julietta’s taunt echoed in his ears, and he shook his head, turning up the volume on his wireless speakers. Nothing like a little something from Ol’ Blue Eyes to go with his coffee.
“I did it my way too, Frankie boy,” he responded to the sultry sounds of Sinatra echoing through his pristine kitchen.
Tony rolled his shoulders and breathed the clean, familiar smells of his home. The routine silenced his beast, who was getting more and more restless the older he got. Lifting the freshly ground espresso beans to his face, he breathed in their strong, mouth-watering aroma. In just a few minutes, he’d be able to enjoy a steaming demitasse cup of his favorite black brew.
Totally worth the time it took to hand-grind the beans. He released a sigh. A manly sigh, but a sigh, nonetheless. It had been a very long case.
Tony ignored the flashing light on his old-fashioned answering machine and sat on the stool as he waited for the water to boil. Only one person ever called his landline. Everyone else used the cell number he sparingly gave out.
5
The blasted thing kept flashing, breaking through his serenity like a lighthouse cutting through fog. Only this light didn’t lead to safety. It led to the past and things Tony did not want to talk about. He ground his teeth. He had nothing else to say to the old woman.
The light persisted in irritating him. Even when he turned his back on the machine. Next, his cell vibrated, and Tony looked down to read the text message.
Grandmother Leeds was no quitter, he’d give her that. But no matter what she insisted he call her, the confounded woman was not the warm cuddly grandmother of his youth. She was related by blood, but that was it.
His real nonna was the little old woman who still resided in South Philly. The caring, loving grandmother whose lap he sat on while she rolled out fresh ravioli every Thanksgiving. The one who let him taste the filling before they piped it into the perfect dough squares and gave him first dibs at sampling them.
His nonna was soft and rounded, the best hugger he’d ever met. She was cute and petite, standing five-foot-nothing with white hair, cut close to her head in short, soft curls. Her hands smelled permanently of garlic and parsley from her years of cooking for the family, and she never put off tomorrow what she could do today. Hadn’t she taught him that again and again?
His real nonna was a gem. They didn’t make women like Carmina DiCarlo anymore. She’d been his savior and staunchest supporter when he’d been a wild-eyed youth. Yeah, he loved her to bits. She’d brought a lot of comfort to the little devil who’d been so lovingly taken into the DiCarlo home.
On the other hand, Grandmother Leeds, with her slender figure, expensive clothes, and sleek, salon-styled hair, was the total opposite. She was all business in her speech and her actions. Not the warm, friendly picture of a grandmother that he’d grown up with.
He’d keep his nonna and the way the woman doted on him just the way it was, thank you very much. Leeds might be his name, but the DiCarlo’s were his heart. After they’d found him wandering on his own at the edge of the highway just outside the Pine Barrens, the family of mouse shifters had scooped him up, taken him in, and cared for him as their own.
He’d had almost fifteen years of blessed happiness, and sure, maybe a little teen angst, with his adopted family before Tony’s biological relatives had shown up. They’d claimed they’d been searching for him for the whole time.
Of course, he’d had a difficult time buying that story. Now that he was a certified PRIC detective, he knew for a fact that they’d told him the truth. There was no central system monitoring shifters and their families. It was too dangerous to keep such information where anyone, especially humans, could get at it. So yeah, it had taken that long to discover he’d been living just an hour away.
Of course, by the time they found him, the teenaged Tony wanted nothing to do with the Leeds clan. He took the name as was his birthright and used it for business purposes so as not to bring any heat down on his Mama and Pop. But his license said Antonio Leeds-DiCarlo with a little hyphen.
That really pissed Grandmother Leeds off. The memory made him grin. She’d put up a fight, but in the end, he won. He would never do anything to hurt Mama and Pop or any of his seven adopted sisters.
The DiCarlo family was boisterous and loud, but most of all, loving. The three-story house in Philadelphia where they’d lived wasn’t too far from where they had found him naked and dirty, hungry too.
His name might be Leeds, but he was a DiCarlo through and through. His past was forgotten, and that was final. Or, it would have been final, if the meddlesome old woman had just stopped visiting and forgot about him.
But no such luck. She came like clockwork twice a year. She sent him money and presents every holiday. And once he’d hit puberty, she’d hounded him for signs of his impending shift. Once it became apparent he’d shift the last quarter moon of his fifteenth year, she’d insisted on being present. Talk about awkward.
Tony repressed a shudder at the memory. His adopted family had been supportive but surprised, to say the least, when their little boy had turned into something not quite ordinary. Not that he could blame them.
The DiCarlo’s were happy to have him, loved him like he was their own or so they’d told him every day, and he readily returned their affections. How could he not?
They tried hard not to bat an eyelash when he’d been revealed that fated night of his first shift during the blasted quarter moon that was so important to his kind. He had not quite understood the inferences Grandmother Leeds had given him, so he was not fully prepared for what would happen once he came into his red-furred, fire-breathing, bat-winged, goat-headed glory.
Grandmother Leeds was a little shocked at that last bit as well. Not very reassuring to a teenaged boy whose greatest wish was to rebuild the 1985 IROC-Z he’d found for a steal at a car auction. The car was a classic. In fact, he still had it in his garage. He’d get to finishing it. Someday.
6
Back then, Tony didn’t want to learn about his inner beast and how to control him. But he did it anyway. He’d spent weekends going over lessons with Grandmother Leeds instead of cruising junkyards for parts for his beloved muscle car.
He didn’t do it for her or himself, he did it because Mama asked him to. He was man enough to admit without shame that he was his Mama’s boy. It was also totally okay with him to shed a tear or two whenever he thought of his round-bellied Mama and how she’d whisper soothing words to him, mostly in Italian whenever he was scared or frightened.
Heck, that very first time he’d changed, she was the one who’d talked him down from the panic that had almost overwhelmed him.
“Mi bell’angelo, calmati,” she’d said softly to him.
Translated, it meant “calm yourself, my beautiful angel,” and nothing could have been further from the truth. He was no angel. Tony was a Devil. A Jersey Devil to be precise.
That crazy beast inside of him was not the typical kind of shifter. After he’d been kidnap
ped as a toddler, it became evident he’d been experimented on. No other Leeds family member had a goat-like head when shifted, especially not one with two rows of serrated, razor-sharp teeth.
These days, he was kind of fond of his forked-tail Devil. He just wasn’t into attending any Leeds family reunions. He was happy with his life as it was.
The blinking light crept into his peripheral vision, and Tony growled low in his throat. Not now. This was his time, dammit. The rich fragrance of the espresso beans filled his nostrils as he manually loaded the press.
Turning his chair slightly to avoid the pesky little reminder that there were others who wanted in on his “me time,” Tony dropped his head back and grumbled. He knew the reason she was calling him. Had made the mistake of listening to an earlier message that morning. The very idea set his teeth on edge.
“It’s time, Antonio. Time for you to find your promised mate. You have until the last quarter moon this month. If you wait too long, it will be out of your hands. At best, Fate will decide for you, and at worst, your Devil will go crazy without a mate. If you don’t believe me, call your cousin. Avail will tell you. Now, remember I warned you, my thick-skulled grandson.”
He shook his head and pushed the old woman’s voice out of his head. He did not have to heed her words. She was not his family despite her insistence that he was hers. Enough was enough. He was just not going there today.
“Just make your espresso,” he mumbled to himself and tried once more for the elusive calm he sought at the end of every work trip.
It was his one vice, if he could even call it that. He knew the dangers of forming habits from his line of work, and yet, he gladly indulged in his little ritual of grinding the twice roasted, imported espresso beans, in his manual aluminum grinder by ROK. Afterwards, he loaded the fresh grounds into the nifty hand-pulled espresso press by the same maker.
Yes, he’d ordered the red one. He liked red. It was his favorite color. Go figure.
After making his hand-crafted double-shot, he sat down on one of the four sturdy metal stools that surrounded the kitchen island that served as his table more often than not and waited for the scalding liquid to cool a bit.
There was just no point in dirtying the dining room if there was no one else eating. Tony often ate alone these days. Too often. But that was what happened when you were successful. He was a busy man. So sue him.
He still made it home for Sunday dinner once a month, and he always brought a dozen fresh cannoli for his mother and a bottle of red wine for his father. He always tried to be a good son. It was the least he could do.
Licking his lips, he dropped the tiny curl of lemon peel into the black liquid before lifting it. There was nothing better on earth. Especially after he’d finished a case, typed up his final notes, and shut down his laptop for the night.
His boss demanded all employees complete their end of assignment forms and hand in all documentation at the conclusion of each case. No exceptions.
The boss was a bit of a hardass about such matters, but Tony did not mind. He was rather computer savvy and, if he was being honest, could be a bit of a neat freak.
He’d worked as a detective for Private Resourceful Investigative Contractors for almost a decade now. Had his official license in the states of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York, as well as a degree in criminal justice that he’d gotten between gigs. It had been important to Mama.
And yet, in all that time, he had never even heard the boss’ name, much less seen him or her. No one at PRIC had. Some tried, all failed. And Tony liked his job too much to risk it on trying to figure out who the biggest PRIC was.
Snort. Sometimes he amused himself a little too much. Ah well, he supposed laughter was considered a cure-all for a reason. And for the things it couldn’t cure, there was espresso. He had thirty seconds left before the liquid reached the ideal temperature. Only then would he imbibe in the perfect sip.
Bellissimo!
He glanced at the mail piled neatly on the end of the counter. His cleaning service was on point. Now that was good money well spent. He knocked on the table and rolled his shoulders. It sure was good to be home.
Tony had spent the better part of the last two weeks on the tail of a runaway college student who’d taken her tuition money and hopped a cruise ship to Alaska with her boyfriend instead of registering for her courses much to the astonishment of her parents.
After several days of freezing his ass off hopping cruise ships and exploring port towns, he finally found her. The little doe had been a mess, crying her eyes out over the strunz she’d run away from home for. That little shit had looked a hell of a lot worse when Tony had been through with him.
As the oldest brother of seven little sisters, Tony didn’t fool around when it came to breaking women’s hearts. He’d busted plenty of noses for the sake of family honor in his day. Taught his sisters how to do it themselves as well. For mice, they were downright ferocious when it came to defending themselves. He’d never been more proud as when his sister Donna beat the crap out of a guy who’d tried to cop a feel without even a hello first.
Ah, memories. True, he’d had a bit of a violent streak in his youth. Okay, fine, he still had it. But, and that’s a big but, it never interfered with his ability to do his job as a big brother or a PRIC detective.
At any rate, it had been fairly easy after he’d popped the young buck in the nose to convince the doe it was time for her to go home to her family. Sure, she was worried they’d be mad, but the truth was, they just wanted her safe and back home with them. Even if she had spent every cent of her tuition money.
Kids, he sighed. The doe was twenty-years-old, but she was still a kid in his book. Chasing after a buck who’d dumped her not two weeks into their spur-of-the-moment let’s-run-away-and-elope plan.
Idiots. She’d been down to her last dollar by the time Tony had gotten there. The family was thrilled and welcomed her back with open arms. They’d even offered good ol’ Tony a bonus for bringing back their baby safe and sound. He’d refused the extra money. They’d need it soon enough, especially with the young one on the way.
He didn’t know much about white-tailed deer shifters, but he did know that typical shifters’ noses were not as highly developed as his own super freaky shifter-stein olfactory sense.
Most of the time, regular shifters couldn’t even tell a shifter from a non-sentient animal. To him, that was like not being able to tell if it was the sun or moon hanging in the sky.
7
That was him, a regular shifter-stein. He snorted at the nickname he’d given himself when he’d been a jerky teen. A tendril of fear ran down his back as he ducked his head and peeked around the room, looking for his Mama. She always knew when he got down on himself. And she always smacked a little sense into him when he did. Lovingly, of course.
Ouch. Phantom pain made his skull throb, and he instinctively rubbed his head. Even memories hurt sometimes. But Tony knew that even if he wasn’t an actual freak, he was pretty damn close.
Special. That’s what Mama said.
A good boy. That was what his Pop called him still.
Tony accepted that he was simply more. The phone buzzed again, and he tried his best to ignore it. He’d done his research on the Jersey Devil. Read the lore and studied the legends that were part of his heritage. But honestly, he didn’t have the patience for it.
That about sums me up, he thought with a grunt and a glance at the vibrating piece of machinery. The word work flashed on the shiny screen.
“Okay, fine.” He grabbed a dishtowel to wipe the few drops of coffee that spilled before turning back to the phone.
“You think the universe could maybe let me have a cup of coffee in peace once in a while,” he growled and tossed the towel onto the floor.
Of all the active PRIC’s, Tony was one of the most frequently requested. He was among their top five investigators. Even made PRIC of the month a few times. The more cases they took on, the more resou
rces he was able to devote to those old and forgotten missing persons or shifters cases he specialized in.
The boss had started the organization about twenty years ago on the west coast, opening the second location on the east coast about fifteen years ago.
Like most things, with a little time and effort, PRIC began to grow. And so was Tony’s reputation. He had a long list of happy clients under his belt. He was the man or, er, the detective, Tony was not sexist in the least, no matter what Joe Canary the boss’ secretary said, to solve cases involving missing persons.
Missing shifters mostly, but he’d been known to solve the odd human case here or there. Still, he hated it when they gave out his private cell phone number. He’d warned Joe just last month about this. The little tweety bird must want a little attention from the devil. Not a smart move in Tony’s humble opinion.
As if the fact that he didn’t turn into your average brown-eyed buck, striped and fanged tiger, a furry bear, or even a scaly gator wasn’t enough of a deterrent to stop folks from searching him out during the rare times he was home. Most people didn’t even know what to call him, although the occasional shouted “what the fuck is that” was not unheard of.
Not that you could tell any of this from looking at him in his human form. Tony Leeds was one good-looking guy if he did say so himself. He stood exactly six-feet tall and weighed a little over two-hundred pounds of cut muscle, no flab despite his propensity for pasta and after-dinner espresso.
Naturally, work would butt in just as he was finally about to lift the cup to his lips. He was one inch away from indulging in the first sip of the now perfect dark brew that he’d made from his own blend of Sumatran and Columbian coffee beans.
“Madonna mia,” he muttered, placing the cup down on the granite counter with a little too much force. He ignored the espresso that splashed over the side and reached for his smartphone.