by Sam Crescent
I remember now. He hit me with a fucking baseball bat when I was still a coyote. He knows I’m a shifter. This psycho motherfucker knows what I am. And he’s got me chained up so damn tight the metal links he’s bound me with are biting deep into my wrists.
I try to loosen the chains enough to slip a hand free, but I stop when there’s a warm gush of wetness sliding down each forearm.
“Don’t bother,” he says, moving closer, in front of me. He’s a silhouette in the darkness I can barely see. “I locked those suckers on you so tight, you won’t slip ‘em, not even if you shift.” He laughs. I strain my eyes, trying to see him.
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice raspy. It hurts to talk, to move, to breathe. I want to, need to try to get up, try to fight my way out of here.
“Bryce Holter. I’ve been looking for one of you fuckers for a long-ass time.”
Bryce Holter? Oh, shit. Fucking shit. “You’re the shifter-killer.”
He laughs again. “Well, yeah, I guess I am.”
All the locals have heard of Bryce Holter. We shifters know him as a bat-shit crazy psychopath who targets our kind. A few years ago he was finally put away with a life-term for murdering a couple a few towns away.
“But you’re supposed to be in prison. You were convicted of murder.”
“Broke out. Had unfinished business.”
Oh, I can imagine what he means by that. “You broke out to keep hunting shifters.” I’ve got to be careful about what I say, in case he doesn’t know about my family. Or Tala.
Tala.
I can’t let this asshole anywhere near her.
“Well, yeah. What else? All I’ve gotta do is prove to the world what you are, show ’em I was never lying in the first place. After I show everybody how I’ve saved them, hunting down you monsters—well, they’ll clear me of all charges, make me a free man.”
What a full-on nutjob. “You killed people, Holter. No one’s going to clear your record.” You fucking moron.
“They will!” He’s suddenly in my face, screaming. “And you’re gonna do every fucking thing I tell you, or I’m gonna cut you so bad, you’re gonna beg for me to kill you, and when I’m done havin’ fun with you, I’ll find every last mutt you know and kill ’em.”
He’ll do what he says. I can hear it in his voice. Funny, of all the ways I’ve ever imagined I may die, getting kidnapped and tortured to death by a raving, homicidal lunatic was not one of them.
But Tala. And my family. If I die, who’s going to warn them? I’ll do anything to keep them safe.
I take a shaky breath, raising my head up to the shadowed figure standing over me. My decision is an easy one.
“Fine,” I say. “You win. What do you want me to do?”
“I want my proof. No one believes me. You’re going to do your thing and transform into a dog while I film you. That’ll show ’em. They’ll pin a medal on me after this. They won’t call me a murderer anymore.”
He leans in so close to me I can smell his breath, rancid and heavy with tobacco smoke. “They’ll call me Bryce Holter—monster killer.”
Chapter Eight
Tala
I call Channing. When he doesn’t answer, I call again. And again. He’s pissed at me, I get it. Beyond pissed, probably, since I crumbled his heart into tiny pieces this morning. I’d hate me too.
Apologizing wasn’t the only reason I had in mind for calling him. I checked in with the station this morning, and Bryce Holter is still loose. I need to know where Channing is. There’s a solid lump of unease sitting heavy in my chest.
By mid-afternoon, I give up. I’m off duty, but my instincts are screaming at me to take the cruiser out for a drive. I should stop by Channing’s house too, see if he’s really not answering his phone simply because he’s furious with me.
I’m on my way out the door, keys in hand, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Finally. I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s calling me back, I think.
But no. I pull my phone out and look at it. Weylin, not Channing. Weylin never calls me, at least he hasn’t since his brother and I broke up a year ago.
I swipe the screen, my hand a little unsteady. “Weylin?”
“Hey, Tala. I think something’s wrong.”
My breath catches. I pause for a second, fortifying myself. “What’s happened? Are my officers still keeping an eye out at your place? Is it Bryce?” All the possible scenarios whirl through my mind, but I know, of course, what he’s going to say before he says it.
“It’s Channing. He’s missing.”
****
I find his truck alongside the road, not a mile from my house. Locked inside it are his clothes and cell phone. Wherever he is, he’s either shifted or he’s running around naked. It’s possible he’s chosen to remain in his coyote form all day.
But what if? What if something has happened?
I search the perimeter of the truck, then spread out, further and further, trying to cover any place he might’ve traversed. I imagine where Channing would walk, what paths he chose. It’s not hard. I know him well—well enough that I should’ve known better than to upset him this morning, forcing him out and onto Bryce’s radar.
Guilt. It stabs through me, making my chest hurt. If anything has happened to Channing— I pause at the edge of the road to catch my breath, imagining my life without him. This last year without him has been hell, if I’m honest. The only thing that carried me through was convincing myself I did the right thing by rejecting him.
But now…
I just need to find him. Immediately.
I press on, crossing the road, and that’s when I see it. There are some long, wild grasses on the edge of the forest, swaying in the late afternoon breeze. Several blades are broken and bent, crushed by something heavy. I hunch down, investigating closer.
And that’s when I notice the blood.
Chapter Nine
Channing
Holter knows nothing about shifters. God only knows how he ever found out about us. But one thing’s for sure.
Despite what he thinks, these chains aren’t going to hold me, not once I shift.
Which will be soon. And then … then I’m going to kick his ass. He’s a murderer and these chains are goddamned tight, but there’s no way in hell I’m not getting out of them and taking him down before he gets to Tala.
Footsteps shuffle through the hay and the dust. “Smile for the camera,” he says, standing right next to me with a small video camera in his hand, the light from the camera illuminating the dark with harsh brightness.
Oh, I’ll smile for you, all right. Right before I rip out your heart with my teeth.
“Okay. When I say shift, shift.”
I force myself to raise my chin and look up so I can see him. It’ll be more fun crushing that smug-ass grin from his face if I see what he looks like before I pulverize him.
He’s smiling, all right. Looking down on me like he owns the world. “Why the hell do you hate us so much?” The words burst out of me.
His face twists, the smile disappears. “None of your goddamn business.”
He’s riled. Good. “Yeah, I think it is my business. You’ve got me chained up in a barn and you’re threatening my people.”
“Your people?” He laughs, a harsh croak coming from his throat. “You ain’t people.”
And then, faster than I’d imagined possible, his booted foot comes up lightning-quick toward my face. I jerk out of the way, but he still skims the side of my sore head with his heel.
Big mistake, motherfucker.
“Now. Shift. Now.” Holter spits out every word.
I’m keeping my face angled away from him, in case he decides to try again. My blood is boiling hot and the coyote within wants out so bad I don’t think I could hold him back if I wanted to. The agony in my head beats a pulse of rage, rage, rage.
The fury strengthens me, white-hot adrenaline sizzling through me as I transform. My claws come out. My legs and arms narrow into
canine limbs, and as I hoped—with some luck and a little more pain, I’m able to slip free of the chains.
****
Tala
It’s the blood that helps me find him. There’s something to be said for being both a shifter and a cop. With my heightened sense of smell, I detect the coppery scent miles away.
“Chief Akecheta,” a voice crackles through my police radio and I turn the volume down. I pull over, slowing my car to a stop alongside an old dirt road. There’s an abandoned-looking barn standing on the top of the hill and I don’t want to be seen. I turn the car off and step out silently, inhaling the smells carried on the wind.
If my senses are as strong as I think they are, Channing is here.
“Chief Akecheta.” The voice is more persistent, worried, probably. I should respond. But calling for backup when a shifter is involved in an incident is tricky—most of the other officers I work with are humans and they have no idea shifters exist. I plan to keep it that way.
But not telling anyone at dispatch where I am is sheer stupidity, so I quickly check in and add “potential lead on location of Bryce Holter” before giving my location. Hopefully this will give me enough time to get Channing out free and clear before the human officers and press swarm the scene.
“No!”
A scream pierces the air, shrill and violent. I pull my weapon free of its holster and start to run up the hill to the barn, where the cry seems to have come from. My feet whip through the grasses and my heart starts to beat a rapid rhythm.
“No! No!” The voice again. Definitely a man’s voice. And definitely not Channing’s. I’d know Channing’s deep baritone anywhere.
Breathing hard, I race up the last leg of the hill and I see a door, warped and bent, partially open. I dig my fingers into the old wood and pull.
Hurry, Tala, Hurry. I have a sick feeling in my stomach, a squirming mass of unease so strong it takes my breath away. There’s no more sound coming from in the barn as I slip inside, darkness instantly swallowing me.
And then—a growl. So long and so low it comes from the bottom of the earth. It’s a rumble I feel all the way to my toes.
Channing.
“Fucking mutt!” A man shrieks, and then, by the sound of it, he falls to the ground.
Keeping my weapon in one hand, I reach for my flashlight with the other. My hands are shaking, ever so slightly. I’ve never had to come in shooting before and I’ve always hoped I’d never have to—especially when someone I know—someone I love—is involved.
Someone I love.
Keep it together, Tala. I take a breath, hold it. Then I flick the flashlight on and direct the beam of light toward the direction of the sounds of struggle. Instantly, white light washes over a man lying on the floor, covered in dust, grappling with a gigantic coyote.
Bryce Holter. And Channing.
Shit.
Don’t think about it. Just stop them.
“Freeze! This is the police!” My voice resonates throughout the barn.
Bryce doesn’t falter one bit. But Channing—Channing stops and lifts his head, his animal-yet-human eyes meeting mine.
Something flashes in the light—something metallic.
Shit. Bryce has a knife.
“Stop, Holter! Or I will shoot you!”
Channing has Holter pinned to the ground but I’m afraid it’s not enough to hold him for long. Holter twists his head until he’s facing me, his eyes glittering with pure craziness. “No you won’t,” he rasps. Channing is standing on his chest, his teeth bared and poised over Holter’s throat. “You can’t shoot me without putting a hole in this—this thing.”
Channing is looking at me still, watching, I think—to see what I want him to do. I know what he wants. This ass-wipe Holter hurt him, took him, for God-only-knows what reason. Channing wants vengeance. But he’s not a killer.
“Holter! I said—”
The blade catches in the light, rising high. Channing lunges, but Holter’s blade sinks into Channing’s flesh.
“No!” The word rips from my throat. I slam the flashlight against the handle of my weapon, directing the beam at my target. Channing hasn’t backed off at all, though I can see the glistening of blood spread wide across his flank. “Move, Channing!”
He listens to me, crouching low, but Holter raises the knife high again, reeling back for another attack.
I fire.
The blast dispels the darkness with a flash of white.
The recoil knocks the flashlight from my hand and it turns off, throwing the barn into thick blackness once again.
“Channing! Channing. Are you all right?”
I’m scrambling for the damn flashlight, my fingers suddenly trembling so much it’s all I can do to fumble through the dust. “Channing!”
“Tala, relax. I’m fine.”
There. I find the barrel of the flashlight and switch it on again. I shine the light ahead and see Channing, in human form, on his knees in the dust. Next to him is Bryce Holter, unmoving, with a bullet hole in his forehead.
“It’s okay, honey. He’s down. You got him.”
“Shit.” It’s all I can say for a second. I wanted to take Holter to trial. I didn’t get up this morning thinking I was going to kill someone.
But Channing—he’s breathing hard, squinting into the bright flashlight beam. I holster my weapon and kneel next to him. A red smear of blood covers his right shoulder and darker, older blood has dried in rivulets over his head and face.
“You’re so not fine,” I mutter, not trusting my voice. There’s a lump in my throat, threatening to choke me.
“There’s an emergency kit in my car,” I say in a hoarse whisper. “Can you walk?”
I want to get us both out of here and away from Holter’s dead, staring eyes. Channing nods. He leans on me as he stands, a testament, I think, to how shitty he’s feeling.
I manage to get us to the door and then I kick it open, giving us more room to get through. My adrenaline is still running high and the door flies off the hinges. We step into the diminishing light and Channing starts shaking. I stop, alarmed. “Are you—” And then I realize— “Are you laughing?”
He is. The sonofabitch is laughing at me. “Remind me not to ever push you too far, Tala,” Channing says, wincing.
“You’re an ass,” I say, but there’s no anger edging my voice. I’m relieved he’s well enough to laugh at me.
We stumble down the hill to my cruiser, slipping with awkward steps. The closer we get to the car, the more Channing leans on me. “Hold up,” I say, trying not to sound as worried as I feel. “Here. Sit in the grass and rest against the wheel.”
There’s an emergency kit in the trunk with bandages, a blanket, and a few other things that might prove useful. I grab the bandages first and lower myself into the grass next to him. He’s got a hand over his ribs where Holter stabbed him.
“Let me see.”
Channing hesitates, blinking slow. “Leave it. It’ll heal on its own. Give it time.”
Stupid, stubborn man.
“I know how shifter healing works, Channing. And it doesn’t happen fast if the wound is deep. Let me see.”
His lips are set in a tight line, his skin paler and clammier than it should be. Still, he doesn’t move his hand. Oh, come on.
“Channing—”
“On one condition.”
What? “What are you talking about? You’re probably bleeding to death. Let. Me. See.”
“I will. If you admit something to me.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. “We don’t have time to chat, Channing.”
He flinches, going paler still. What if he really is bleeding to death? “Okay, goddamn it,” I concede, my throat going dry with fear. “But hurry the hell up.”
He smiles a shaky smile. “This whole thing with Holter.” He pauses, catching a breath. I hold mine. “He got to me even though you and I aren’t married. Aren’t even together.”
“Okay…”
“So, you see what I’m trying to say?”
Ah. I see. “And you’re bringing this up now?”
“Why not?” His smile turns cocky, self-assured. “I’ve got your full attention, baby.”
Then his face turns serious, and I put my hands over his hand that’s covering his chest, trying to force it away so I can do something about the knife wound.
“Wait. Tala. Listen. Look at me.”
I do, hoping his stubbornness doesn’t kill him.
“The people you care about can get hurt whether they’re with you or without you. I can get hurt, even though I’m not married to you.”
I know what he says is true. I get it. “But my job—”
“Saved my life. If anything, I’m safer with you than without you.”
I don’t have a response for that. I do want to marry him. It’s just the fear—it’s had a hold on me for so long now.
“You’re a badass, Tala. I wouldn’t change it for anything. But don’t make me stay away. I need you.”
He stares at me, expectantly, I suppose, waiting for me to tell him I need him too. I miss him. But…
“Give me time,” I tell him, watching his hopeful expression crumble. “That’s not a no, Channing.”
I will marry him. When I’m ready.
“First you have to let me save your life. Move. Your. Hand.”
He smiles again, gently, and then grimaces when I push one of the bandages into the hole in his flesh. “Not so cocky now, are you?”
“Don’t enjoy this too much.”
I’m not enjoying it at all. Watching Bryce Holter almost murder Channing has put me in anything but an enjoyable mood. His pallor worries me. “We’ve got to get you to one of our people at the hospital.”
Our people—the local doctors and nurses who are shifters or know about shifters and won’t freak out when something weird pops up on blood tests.
“Too late for that,” Channing says, his attention focused on something behind me, coming down the road. And then I hear them. Sirens.
Shit. It’s my backup. “I had to call them. I didn’t know what I was going to find. And now, since I had to kill Holter…” My heart is racing, an erratic drumbeat against my ribs.