Yes, perhaps meeting another jaguar was behind the instant chemistry I'd felt. We shared a bond by the simple fact we were both jaguars. Yes, that had to be it. I was so attracted to him because of both the sire bond and the fact he was a kindred soul. I nodded to myself and continued shoveling the delicious food into my gob.
"Sam?” Quinn tapped on the table. “You still with us?"
"Huh? Yeah, sorry. Just enjoying the food and got lost for a moment." Yeah, that's it, I got lost thinking about the food and not the jaguar who'd bitten me and totaled my old life.
I really want to know why such an uber-asshole had to be so good looking. Was it a prerequisite for douchebag status?
"Right. Anyway, Josh called the preacher man and he says we can stop by, no problem. Only hiccup is that we have to wait until later this afternoon."
"Fine. Works for me. We can go back to the office and start writing the media alert."
"No."
"Excuse me? What do you mean, no? This guy is killing lycans. We can't just let them go on about their lives without warning them!" I set my fork down and took a big swig of Pepsi.
I was going to need the caffeine if I was going to have this fight with Quinn, and dammit, I was going to have this fight.
"Look, if we get on the press and warn all weres it'll just cause a panic."
"The fuck?" Yes, eloquent and to the point, that's me.
"Think about it, what sort of lycans is he targeting, Sam?"
"Hookers. What does it matter, Q? Since when is the victim at fault?" I could feel myself growing ever angrier and I took some deep breaths.
"Do hookers usually watch the news, Sam?"
"I see. No, they don't. Anything that they need to know they get from each other. So if we broadcast about Grisly we'll just end up panicking people who aren't in his victim pool, anyway. Understood. So, what do we do here?"
"I am of the opinion that involving the media—without outing the super community at large—is impossible. I say we talk with the whores and spread the word through them. I mean, Grisly had to start somewhere and I doubt it was with killing. I'm willing to bet even money there's a victim out there that got away. A victim that doesn't even know she was in the hands of a guy like Grisly."
When he said that a chill clawed its way up my spine. He was probably right. Quinn had been working serial killer cases for almost two decades. He understood how the mind of a killer worked better than most of the serials understood themselves. I remember him telling me about a case where an ex-girlfriend of a serial helped catch him because of something similar. He'd been strangling women all over town, women who looked eerily similar to his ex-girlfriend.
Then, when Quinn found a link between all the women and her (they'd all been clients of the same dry cleaner her ex had worked at), he went to speak to her about it. During their talk the question of strangling came up and she recalled how her ex had tried strangling her when they'd been playing around one night.
She had stared him right in the eyes and saw this look of hatred that scared her to death. She was sure he would have killed her, but her dog barked outside and it seemed to shake him from whatever he was thinking. He let go of her neck, apologized, made some feeble excuse, and left.
When Quinn went to speak with the young man he found earrings taken from each victim in plain view. They were lined up on the mantle above the guy's fireplace like trophies, which was exactly what the guy later said he had thought of them.
The freak was arrested and confessed to killing all twelve of the girls. Based on what Quinn had uncovered in the man's diary, he had enjoyed strangling his ex and knew it would have only been a matter of time before he killed her, so he left her alone and, instead, killed surrogates. It was the only bit of love he'd ever shown.
Over the years we'd been partners, I learned a lot from Quinn about these sorts of creatures. I realize, though, that I still have so much more to learn. Psychopaths are so very different from what you'd think they'd be like. Even their scent differs from other people. They are predators, but not in the way an animal is. No, they enjoy the act of murder itself, quite unlike those who kill out of necessity.
I learned through Quinn that although these types of killers seem completely inhuman, their issues most often stem from the most human of emotions. They just want to feel loved, needed, and important to someone. A normal person feels those things and then reaches out to a fellow human to connect and meet those needs. A psychopath cannot. They prefer to sever other people's connections rather than make their own.
It often reminds me of how I learned—through my zoology studies—that jaguars are solitary cats. They come together to mate, but then they live their lives apart. Their territory occasionally overlaps with their mate's, but they only meet on rare occasions. I've always preferred solitude to company.
I guess, in my own way, I can relate a bit to these aberrant humans. They, much like me, strive to make connections, but know deep down they are better off alone. As I coated my toast with grape jelly, I realized I was looking far too deeply into myself and the nature of people like Grisly. In order to catch him I may need to think like him, but not just yet. I don't like getting lost in the mindset and I wanted to be in a less bleak state of mind when we interviewed the priest.
It's not always the same mentality, don't get me wrong, every single killer is different in regards to what sets them off. Each of them has a different victim type, a different set of circumstances that brings out their evil, and I needed to realize that it is not for me to fully understand these beings. My job is to make sense of their urges and behaviors. I needed to remember that my duty is only to stop them and not to empathize with them. It doesn’t matter if they’d been horrifically abused as children or not.
I tended to empathize with these people because I’d had a similarly horrid childhood and I understood what it could do to a person. It takes immeasurable strength to move on from the pains of our abuse. Some souls just went dark, some may have just been evil to begin with, and they lived forever in a place of pain, only feeling peace when others were hurting. It was sick and demented, but those were the circumstances in which these monsters thrived.
The only circumstances I needed to come to terms with, and thrive in at the moment, were those involving my own particular beast and what I meant to do about my maker. I didn't doubt I'd see him again. There was something drawing me to him and possibly him to me. It was like those cheap romance books I used to laugh at on the rack at an old five and dime store. I hated myself for that.
This intense connection the man who bit me and I shared had to have been powered by some sort of sire bond. I was sure of it. I remembered reading Dracula, and the thrall Stoker spoke of in his immortal work was similar to the feeling I had when I saw the man who’d turned me.
In those types of books women like me marry guys like Chad for the love and security he provides. In reality, Chad's a nice guy, but he's not passionate about anything, and passion was something I sorely needed in my life. However, a guy like my maker, who didn’t seem to understand the concept of consent, wasn’t anything close to what I wanted.
Actually, what I really needed to do was take the time to think about everything I learned today. I needed to ponder on what my maker said. I'd often wondered why the jaguar who'd bitten me had done so. He told me today he'd been watching me. That kind of pissed me off and made me rather disgusted.
Don't get me wrong, the anger was there, but it was nowhere near as hot as it should be for the man who'd just admitted to stalking and turning me without my consent. There was something about him that took the edge off that rage. Perhaps it was that he seemed so honest in his plea for me to understand why.
He was so sure turning me would make my life better and he chose to do it for that reason. I feel like there was something more that I was missing in his confession, but most of me didn’t really give a shit. What I did care about were all the questions I had as a jaguar and how he could fil
l in those blanks. However, now was not the time for thinking about that stuff.
Now was the time to concentrate on my job—not to mention the pieces of women being left in cheap motel bathrooms. Quinn, Josh, and I finished our food while strategizing the day's events.
Josh said, “I’ll get in touch with this forensic team I heard of that has come up with a bulletproof way of confirming whether a blood sample is human, animal, shifter, vamp, or other.”
“Good idea.” I finished the last bite of my toast.
“From here on their testing methods should be used on any further victims.” Quinn took a bite of his oatmeal and grimaced.
“I agree. I know they use it at Interpol for every body they get. I wish we’d follow their lead.”
“Same here,” said Hahn.
I felt fairly certain we’d figured out the method to Grisly's madness thanks to the priest. Quinn and I were heading back to the office to let our boss, Gerald, in on what we'd come up with. After that we'd go and see the priest and get any info we may have missed from his earlier talks with other agents.
Once we'd finished our meals, we stood, slapped down a good amount of cash on the table as a tip, and strode to the cashier.
Genie met us at the register, beamed broadly, then turned to me and said, "Your friend paid for your breakfast before he left, sweet pea."
Then she turned to ring up Josh, leaving me to stew. I decided to pay for my breakfast, anyway.
“Hey, Genie, keep whatever money that bastard gave you as a tip. I wouldn't feel right not paying for my own breakfast.”
She shrugged, said thanks, and rang me up after Quinn. I felt vindicated that I didn't allow my maker to get the best of me.
Plus, I liked Genie, so seeing her get an extra tip was always a good thing. We said our goodbyes and then hustled off to the parking lot.
Josh climbed into his beat up red Ford F150 while Quinn and I went to my car. I figured he must have rode to the restaurant with Josh when he followed me to my Challenger. The drive back to the office was spent with both of us in contemplative moods and a lot of AC/DC. For some reason they really kick my thinking into high gear.
While we drove back to the Bureau I began to wonder if I would actually see my maker again. I had some choice words for him that I hadn't thought quickly enough to use at the diner. Part of me hoped I'd see him again and it had nothing to do with yelling at him. Stupid fucking bond. It's like I'm an undersexed teenager and he's on the cover of Teen Beat. Do they still have Teen Beat? Oh, well, it doesn't really matter.
What matters is that I don't allow my feelings to take over for logical thinking. Being attracted to the man who changed me was one thing, panting after the guy was something I would never be okay with. I wasn't that kind of chick.
Chapter 4
I FOLLOWED QUINN INTO THE OFFICE, still fuming at the whole situation. I should be happy to have a lead on Grisly, and yet that happiness was eclipsed by the impromptu return of my maker. A man whose name escaped me. A man that claims to have known me before he bit me.
I recall the coffee cart he spoke of. In fact, I still get coffee there at least once a week. More than that when I have to go to the DA's office. Was he watching me in the same way I’d watch the bird that frequented the patio birdfeeder outside my living room window? Had I been merely a repeat guest-star in his people-watching endeavors? Or was he actually stalking me? Did he wait by the window for me to arrive every day? It was too creepy to contemplate so I shook myself out of it.
"Hey, Sam, can you run up to thirteen and grab the results from forensics? I have to call Kelly," Quinn asked before turning to head for his desk.
"Yeah, sure. Don’t forget to lead off with the fruit and oatmeal." I grinned as I moved to the elevators.
Judging from the sheepish look on his face I was right and he was making the I had bacon, please don't kill me call to his wife. One of the most endearing things about Q is his sense of guilt.
He was the most loyal person I'd ever met and he wouldn't hurt a soul; in fact, he’d only ever attempt to help. I pressed the UP button and stepped in when the doors opened. Imagine my surprise when four people got off on the third floor leaving me alone with none other than my maker.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I snarled.
I had an excellent snarl. I'd actually practiced it after I had been turned. I felt there were two things a cat needed to be taken seriously, a good snarl, and a great grin. I spent too long a time perfecting both.
"I want to talk to you, Sam. No, I need to talk to you." He was insistent alright.
"I don't care what you need, Mister. You leave me alone, got it?"
"Ben." He moved a briefcase from his left to his right hand and dropped eye contact.
"What?" I looked around, unsure if he was talking to me or if he had made a phone call over some Bluetooth accessory.
"Benjamin Fitzpatrick … Ben. That's my name."
"Good for you. What do you want, a fucking medal for remembering your own name?" I took a deep breath and tried to keep from slugging him. He was making it awfully difficult.
"I figured you'd want to know the name of your sire and soul mate." He smiled and there was more than a trace of self-assured cat to it.
It was a lazy yet cocky half-smirk that let me know he was in the mood to play. My jaguar grunted. I mentally hollered at her for being such a tool. She may have been happy, but I was extremely angry. In fact, I could see red.
"You are no more my soul mate than a ... a ... a chicken could be. That's all you are, you know, a chicken! What kind of guy does what you did? You fang-raped me." I hissed at him, baring teeth that had lengthened in my anger.
"That's a serious charge," he said quietly.
He didn't look as sure of himself as he had a moment ago. His face had paled and he looked as if I had given him a powerful right hook. I wish I had. My guess is that he never thought of what he'd done as fang-rape. Arrogant prick.
"You did not have my consent. You did not reveal to me who you were and what you were about to do. You simply bit a woman who thought you were an escaped panther."
With the bulking up of my teeth the angry rant came out with a slight lisp and a few flecks of spittle. I didn't really care. I was far beyond caring and into serious rage. I could feel my bones breaking and knew I was about to turn.
"Stop!" He hissed at me and my change halted.
Bones began to reform back into their human shape, muscles stopped ripping and knit back together, and my ligaments returned to rights. I gaped at him. This wasn't possible. Nobody could stop a were’s transition except the shifter themselves, and even then it was rare that it could be stopped once it had begun.
"How?" My jaguar was just lying on the ground in my mind, her belly offered up to him.
This was not possible. I didn't want to shift here, but I really didn't like that he had so much control of me that he could stop my shifting. The idea that he could control my jaguar like that made me seriously uncomfortable.
"Dammit, Sam! I can do it because you're my soul mate. We are meant to be together. The sooner you get that, the sooner you can give in to it and be happy."
"Yeah, because I'll bet a life with you just equals loads of happiness, you disgusting, controlling freak! Face it, you'd use me every chance you could to get exactly what you want."
I was full of hatred and venom for this man, and my jaguar. There was a part of me that was still attracted to him, even after all this. I sorely needed to research sire bonds when I had more than a fleeting amount of time. How could I possibly find him even slightly attractive? He was the man who had so easily taken my normalcy, my humanity. How dare he act as if the curse he laid upon me with his bite was a present he felt the need to give?
"What I did, I did to make you happy. To make your life better. I hadn’t gone out planning on biting anyone and I am so sorry I went full stupid when you reached out to me."
"You did it without asking. Without even
talking to me about it. You are a complete stranger to me and you stole my life. You took my life from me and gave me nothing in return. The new life I have, I built for myself. I rose up from the ashes that were left of my old life and created a new one. You did me no kindness.”
“I did, though. Being a shifter really is a gift.”
“A gift? You ruined everything I had planned for myself and gave me only one path to travel. I had to give up my apartment in the city, give up my job in computer crimes because it wasn't thrilling enough for me anymore. I gave up everything I ever wanted and rebuilt myself.”
“Because of me your new life is so much better than your old, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not better. It’s just different. How arrogant of you to come in and claim credit! Fuck you. You destroyed me and left me for dead. I rose myself up and made my own way. Another thing, you are not my soul mate. You are nothing more than the source of my virus, plain and simple. You are nothing more than the rapist who gave me the virus that destroyed me!" Tears of rage were coursing down my face and my jaguar sat uncomfortably by, confused and unsure of what to do.
She longed to run with his jaguar, but she couldn't deny the hurt the man had caused us and so, like a good cat, she hissed at him. She somehow broke that hold he had over her and I felt it rip through me. Within seconds I had shifted and it felt good. I stopped and inwardly calmed myself down enough to shift back.
The pain from the quick double shift was like ice water on my furor. It calmed me down and allowed reason to prevail. So, too, did the quick check of my clothing to make sure the shift hadn't torn anything. As much as I wanted to, I knew that killing Ben in this elevator would be a bad idea. Coming out of the elevator in torn clothing wouldn’t be easy to explain and as much as I felt violated I didn’t want him arrested for assault. It wouldn’t be right no matter how badly I wanted it. Besides, people knew I was a shifter, but, as I said before, knowing it and seeing it are two different things.
Shifters: A Samantha Reece Mystery Book 1 Page 4