by Jane Kindred
Lucy set up for the hunt, familiarizing herself with the arrows and testing the draw of Lucien’s crossbow. After last night, she knew she didn’t have to look for the hell beast. The hell beast would find her. Satisfied that her weapons were battle ready, she headed into the bathroom and ran the water for a soak in the tub. It was becoming a habit. Her muscles still ached from her two encounters with the beast—and now she had the added tenderness from last night.
She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror as she undressed. He’d left a mark on her neck and another on the side of one breast—and one on her inner thigh. She closed her eyes, trying not to remember the moment he’d given her that last one, flipping her over after the first time she’d come and licking her pussy while she lay on her stomach before he fucked her from behind. He hadn’t seemed the least bit interested in coming himself, just wanting to find as many ways as he could to pleasure her so he could prolong the experience.
Lucy opened her eyes and focused on her disheveled hair. He’d kept running his hands through it, wanting it loose and long. Who the hell was he to decide how she should wear her hair? The long waves seemed like a symbol of her unprofessionalism, her foolishness in letting herself get carried away by her own selfish desires instead of keeping her head in the game. She yanked open the drawer and found the scissors, and with a hank of hair in her hand, she lopped it off at fist length. With a few violent motions, she’d chopped off the rest, jagged and crude. Lucy stared at the wild mess. The scissors still clutched in her fist tempted her to do worse.
She hadn’t done it in years, but the temptation to cut herself had never been stronger. To maybe just keep cutting until she severed an artery. The tub had finished filling with steaming, fragrant water. Just a couple of nice matching cuts, and then step in and lie back and relax.
Lucy gripped the blades of the scissors until her hand was shaking. With a wordless scream, she swung her fist in an arc across the bathroom vanity and swept everything onto the floor, cosmetics and bottles of facial cleanser and liquid soap and lotion—all of it scattering across the bathroom rug and shattering on the tile. She dropped the scissors and opened the cabinets and the drawers in the vanity and emptied everything, smashing and screaming until she’d punished everything she could reach besides herself. The urge was still strong as she stood among the wreckage and looked up at her reflection once more.
Her eyes were reptilian. She’d partially shifted. Lucy forced out her wings with a howl of pain and fell on her knees, wrapping her wings around herself. What the hell was she anymore? She wasn’t infernal royalty like Lucien, she was earthbound and half human and nothing mattered, and she was so fucking tired. Mr. Henderson’s words came back to her, the alleged taunt from the hell beast—Give my regards to the Queen of the Damned. It couldn’t have meant her. Maybe her sister-in-law. Maybe it was time to try to contact Lucien and Theia and get help.
Lucy let out a choked laugh. Maybe it was really time to get help. “Siri, call Dr. Delano.” She hadn’t expected the mic to pick it up. It was more of a joking plea to the universe. But her phone replied cheerfully from the pile of broken glass and powder, “Calling Dr. Delano.”
She scrambled for the phone and shut it off, but not before Fran had answered. The phone rang immediately, Fran calling back, and Lucy hit the button to decline it. She probably should have just answered and pretended it was a misdial. But now Fran knew something was up.
The knock on the door came while Lucy was floating in the immense bathtub, her tucked wings keeping her from going under. Fran let herself in when Lucy didn’t answer. Dammit. She’d forgotten she’d given her a key. Lucy plunged her head under the water and came up just as Fran arrived at the doorway.
She took in the scene and Lucy’s appearance and shook her head. “Sweetheart. Why haven’t you been taking your meds?”
“Sweetheart” wasn’t what Fran usually called her. Their familial relationship went unspoken. Fran had abandoned her babies after trying unsuccessfully to live with Edgar, and she’d signed a nondisclosure agreement promising never to reveal that she was their mother. She worked for Edgar, just the company and family doctor, as far as they knew—kind but impersonal. But Lucy had figured it out from the way Fran reacted when Lucy was assaulted by a high school boy who asked her out on a date when she was thirteen. It was Fran who’d taken care of her, angry and tearful in turns as she got the story out of Lucy. And it was Fran, Lucy was certain, who’d paid someone to break the little asshole’s arm, because Edgar had never found out.
“The pills don’t work the same since the transformation. They slow me down.”
“That’s part of what they’re supposed to do. The transformation speeds up your metabolism in ways that aren’t entirely healthy. I adjusted your meds to work with the anti-transformative compound. Which I see you haven’t taken this month, either.”
“I was about to, but... I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. The fugitives just keep coming, and now there’s a hell beast stalking me. And I can’t kill it. And I think I slept with him.”
Fran sighed. “Lucy. Honey, come out of the tub. Let’s get you warmed up, and you can tell me all about it. Have you eaten?”
“I don’t know.”
Fran kicked the shards of broken glass out of the way and set a bath mat on the floor, holding her hand out to Lucy. “Come on. You’re going to eat something.”
Reluctantly, and mostly because she really was getting a bit chilly at last, Lucy took Fran’s hand and climbed out, accepting the bath sheet Fran wrapped her in.
After taking a mild sedative to help suppress her shift, Lucy put on a robe and sat cross-legged in front of the fire while Fran made coffee and whipped up eggs and bacon and fluffy cinnamon toast that she’d evidently brought with her—because Lucy’s fridge sure as hell didn’t contain any unexpired food.
Fran brought the plates to the living room and sat with Lucy on the carpet. “So what makes you think you slept with a hell beast?”
“He has the same scars—and then he doesn’t.”
“He?”
“Oliver Connery. He’s a client—I know, don’t even say it.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“He’s part of some paranormal Jerome town council—Oliver owns a bookstore and café there. They called me in because of werewolf sightings, which turned out to be the same thing I’ve been hunting. It’s big, and it’s vicious, and I’m not sure what it is. And I’ve shot it with Soul Reaper bullets and stabbed it, and nothing even slows it down.” Lucy took a bite of toast. “And he’s a volunteer firefighter.”
“The hell beast is a firefighter?”
“Oliver, I mean. But he’s also the damn hell beast, so, yeah. Firefighter hell beast. Can I pick ’em or what?”
Fran poked at her eggs. “You’re sure he’s the beast?”
“How else would he get those scars?”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence. Hear me out. It just seems highly unlikely that this beast would have been hidden all this time, hanging out in Jerome living the life of an upstanding citizen, no reports of attacks until hell happens to be left open and a bunch of demons spill out.”
Lucy ran her hand through the damp, shaggy wreck of her hair. “But I saw the scars, and they healed in a day. He’s enhanced in some way.”
“So are you.”
“That was hardly my choice.”
“Lucy. Honey. It is almost never anyone’s choice. Maybe you should ask him.”
“Like he’s going to tell me the truth. He lied about having the scars in the first place. And he’s lying about something else. I just don’t know what. He claims to be some kind of self-appointed ‘protector’ of inhuman creatures in Jerome, and he’s got some kind of law enforcement or military training.” Lucy’s fingers caught in her hair, and she swore as she yanked them out.
Fran set down her
coffee. “Okay, we’re going to fix that right now. You have a board meeting this afternoon—”
“Oh, shit.”
“And you are Lucy Smok, steel-spined CFO of Smok International.”
Lucy laughed as Fran pulled her to her feet by both hands. “I don’t think that’s correct.”
“That is how people see you, my dear, and I know how important it is to you to present a sharp, professional image. You’re like your father in that regard. Your appearance is part of your arsenal, so let’s make it precision weaponry.”
Lucy sat in a kitchen chair in front of the mirrored bedroom closet doors and submitted to Fran’s grooming. The damage was bad. Lucy had hacked within inches of her scalp in places and left other ragged locks hanging. Fran turned it into a softened version of a men’s business cut, close to Lucy’s head and a little long above the ears, with a side part offset by a curve of eye-level bangs on the right. With a bit of hair wax to smooth the sides and emphasize the point at the nape of her neck, it looked both sophisticated and a little funky.
“Wow, Fran. I had no idea you were a barber and a doctor.” Lucy ran her hand over the final product. “How Wild West of you. Thank you.”
Fran smiled. “I think it suits you.” She brushed the loose hair from Lucy’s neck and took the towel from around her shoulders to shake it out in the bathroom. When she returned, she watched from the doorway as Lucy added some wax to the bangs to sculpt them into a wave that matched her hair’s natural inclination. “Was there something in particular that led to this? I mean, I’m glad you didn’t do anything worse, but attacking your hair is pretty specific.”
Lucy’s cheeks went slightly pink. “It was because he liked it. I know. It’s stupid. But I just felt like such a fool, letting myself get caught up in, in being...” Words were eluding her.
Fran gave her a fond, somewhat reproachful smile. “Human? You’re allowed, you know. You’ve been working yourself so hard, trying to do everything on your own at Smok. For that reason alone, I may never forgive Edgar. You deserve to have some pleasure once in a while. Did you at least have a good time with him?”
The heat in Lucy’s cheeks became more pronounced.
Fran grinned. “That good, huh?”
* * *
Oliver waited as long as he reasonably could to check on the boy. He’d given Colt the key, so if the kid had locked the unit and taken off, he’d have no way of getting inside to verify. His initial knocks on the metal door yielded only silence, but a quick tug on the handle showed that it was unlocked.
He knocked again, not wanting to violate Colt’s privacy. “Hey, Colt? It’s just me, Oliver. I’m alone. I brought you some more things.”
A slight rustling followed from inside, and in a moment the door slid upward a crack. Oliver pulled it up halfway and ducked inside. Over his dirty clothes, Colt was wearing the sweatshirt Oliver had left him in one of the boxes. The boy scuttled into the corner, still untrusting.
Oliver set the bag of dry goods and fruit next to Colt’s bed. Luckily, he’d thought to bring more water, because from the looks of the empty bottles scattered about the floor, Colt had drunk nearly all of it.
“Sorry I didn’t think about the bathroom situation. I take it you managed to slip inside the office and use theirs?”
Colt shook his head and pointed outside. Whatever worked.
Oliver glanced at the empty bottles once more. That was a lot of water for a kid who couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. “Mind if I sit down for a minute?” Colt didn’t seem to, so he sat. “Can I ask you a question? And I want an honest answer.”
The boy hesitated, looking suspicious, before nodding reluctantly.
“Did you start that fire yesterday?”
Colt’s eyes widened, and his gaze darted back and forth as if he was looking for a chance to bolt.
“It’s okay. I just need to know. You won’t get in trouble.”
Colt scooted back against the wall and hugged his knees, staring up at Oliver with a haunted expression. After a moment, he gave a sharp nod and lowered his eyes.
Oliver sighed. “I’m going to guess it’s something in your nature. That’s why you’re drinking all this water.”
Colt looked miserable. He probably thought his brief good luck had run out.
“I’m also going to guess this form you’re showing me isn’t your natural state. That you aren’t human.”
Colt’s face fell, and he slumped against the wall, letting his legs slide to the floor stretched out in front of him.
“I don’t care about that, Colt. I just want to make sure you’re safe and that you don’t accidentally cause anyone harm. I’m sure you’re already aware of how dangerous it is for people like you. That there are people who’d see you as the danger and try to hurt you.” Like Lucy Smok. “And I don’t want that to happen. It also isn’t safe for you to stay here indefinitely. It’s not healthy, for one, and you’re likely to get caught sooner or later. I am not throwing you out,” he hastened to assure the boy. “I just want to figure out what the best solution is for you. Do you have family? Others like you?”
Colt slowly shook his head. It was a mystery how he’d gotten this far on his own. Whatever family he’d had once had probably been hunted. By someone like Lucy. But Oliver couldn’t justify leaving the boy on his own, no matter how self-sufficient he might be. He was a child, and he deserved to be cared for like one, human or not.
“I might know some people who could help you. People like you who are different, maybe in different ways than you, but good people. But it may take me a few days to figure out who the right people are and to track them down. Would that be okay with you?”
Colt’s expression was fearful, eyes searching Oliver’s face intently, as if he might be able to see in it the people Oliver was referring to. He shook his head uncertainly.
“Okay. I won’t do anything you don’t agree to. But I still want to find someplace better for you than this. I’m going to talk to the people I know, but I won’t tell them where you are. I’ll just see what I can find out and come back and tell you what I’ve learned. Is that okay?”
Colt was still uncertain, his anxious expression trying to convey something Oliver was missing. He’d been hiding when Oliver found him, and he’d probably been living in hiding for a long time.
“Colt...is there someone looking for you? Someone you’re afraid of?”
The vigorous nod was unequivocal.
Chapter 9
Maybe Fran was right. Maybe Oliver would have a good explanation for the scars and the rapid healing if Lucy just asked him about it. And maybe Lucy was the queen of England. But after last night, maybe she owed Oliver the question. If he lied straight to her face, that would be an answer, too.
In the meantime, there was one way she could find out more about him. Smok International had access to more intelligence than most government agencies. It wasn’t just unnatural creatures they kept track of. She’d start with exactly who he was. What he was might be more complicated.
Before the board meeting, she initiated the search with her research department, and by the time the meeting was over, the preliminary report was already on her virtual desk. He had been in the military, under the name Oliver Benally—a Navajo surname; if it was his real name, he obviously had an Anglo parent. He’d served four years in the Marines before being recruited by an organization Lucy was unpleasantly familiar with: Darkrock Security.
It was a paramilitary contractor that specialized in supplying forces deployed in response to paranormal events. Edgar had contracted some work to them once, cleaning up a series of rogue blood farms—vampire operations where humans were kept as long-term feeders against their will—but Darkrock’s methods and ethics were questionable even by Edgar’s standards. In the years since, Smok had refused to work with them.
So what was O
liver doing in Jerome running a bed-and-books-and-coffee joint and volunteering to fight fires—while advocating for demons and shifters as if they were simply misunderstood? It seemed to go against everything Darkrock stood for. Unless Oliver was undercover and still working for them. That would explain the assumed name. And in that context, his “paranormal protector” role took on new significance. He might be exploiting the creatures he claimed to defend for Darkrock’s own twisted purposes.
Whatever the reason, he’d definitely hidden his identity well. If it hadn’t been for Smok’s on-staff clairvoyants, the research department might have missed it altogether. As Benally, he’d been reported dead.
Armed with her new information and her crossbow, Lucy drove back to Jerome after dark. Before heading to the mine shaft to smoke out the hell beast, she lingered in front of Delectably Bookish. She could go inside and confront him now, demand to know whether he was the hell beast. But if he was with Darkrock... How could he be both a Darkrock operative and a hell beast? Despite her distaste for Darkrock’s business model, she breathed a little sigh of relief. Of course he couldn’t be the hell beast. Darkrock wouldn’t hire an inhuman creature.
She paused with her hand on the door handle. Darkrock wouldn’t hire one...but it might create one. That was the one line Edgar had refused to cross. He might have looked the other way at Darkrock’s abusive practices, but the company also engaged in live capture. They were known to experiment on their captives to see exactly what made them tick, and rumor had it their ultimate goal was to create their own custom hybrids as soldiers for hire.
Lucy’s grip relaxed on the handle. It made a horrible kind of sense. He was hiding out in a small, deliberately created paranormal community off the larger community’s radar, pretending to be a friend and protector. A hitherto unknown breed of wolf shifter that could phase in and out of animal and human form at will arrived in the area, coincidentally timed to be mistaken for one of the fugitives released from the gates of hell. Oliver displayed the same wounds Lucy had given the beast—and healed them overnight.