 
## **CONTENTS**

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Other Books by Lia

THE DUALITY PARADIGM

Blood & Bone Book One

Lia Cooper

#

**DISCLAIMER** This work contains language and sexual content that may not be suitable for readers under 18. This work contains EXPLICIT SEXUAL MALE/MALE CONTENT. Not your cup of tea? Don't read it. Otherwise, please enjoy.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE DUALITY PARADIGM. Copyright © 2014 by K C Rumsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission.

Cooper, Lia (2014-02-01). The Duality Paradigm: Blood & Bone Book One. The Spec Press. Updated Edition.

All rights reserved.

#

To Kim, who believes in me when I can't believe in myself.

## **CHAPTER ONE**

##

_You'll never find a married witch. Women are just smarter about these things. Time and again you may run across a warlock trying to make a go of it, but this inevitably ends in disaster. The magically inclined tend to share a common, and disastrous, personality profile: narcissistic, self-absorbed and forgetful. And if you think they make terrible spouses, then the truth is, they make even worse mates. This is something every wolfcub knows, in his blood._

_In his bones._

#

"Halt! Stop!"

Ethan Ellison, Seattle Police Detective, mage ( _see magician_ ), and all around personable guy, hurled his body through the night, his feet thudding across the pavement, arms pinwheeling and his lungs working double-time to draw in enough air to keep him going. There was less than half a dozen steps between himself and his quarry and the detective would not be shaken. His pride refused to let him slow.

The darkness enveloped them. It dampened the world, without stars or moon, a chill fog rolling in as midnight approached. They may as well have been the only two people in existence, flying through the night.

They broke through the stillness; twenty yards and they would be at the edge of dense foot traffic delineating the beginning of the market district, busy even at this time of night. Open air bars and late night shopping sprawled across the historic streets, vomiting people and light and noise. If his suspect made it to the crowd, Ethan might lose him.

"Freeze!"

There are rules governing the use and application of magic, the discharge of spells in public spaces and the use of supernatural forces in service of the government. Mostly these rules said, _"Try not to,"_ but if you must, _"be sure and file your form SPM-3x3. Promptly."_

A spark skittered across Ethan's nervous system, just a spark, the merest hint of influence. Energy buzzed almost too faint to even count as magic and fizzed before it could coalesce in his hands. He jerked to a halt at five yards distance, ten seconds, nine seconds, eight—he breathed in raggedly and squared his shoulders, clenching and unclenching his dominant hand as he scrabbled at the tendril of magic in his veins, that one, small spark that set him apart from _human_.

The spell tripped out of him, crossing the dark in a jerk and a bang, hitting his suspect in the hip and sending him sprawling across the pavement.

"Good enough." Ethan grinned and closed the distance between them, his entire left side buzzing with residual energy and going a bit numb. He pulled a pair of runically reinforced handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and slapped them onto the perp while the other man groaned.

"I'm gonna sue."

"Yeah, yeah, you and everyone in a ten block radius," he griped, hauling the heavier man to his feet, intensely aware of the crowd gathering around them. Magic users made up almost fifteen percent of the population and were frequently found working within the cogs of government, but people could still be weird about them; leery of practitioners and disgusted by public displays, even ones as pitiful as Ethan's.

He pulled out his cell and put a call in to the station, reported his location and waited for one of the uniforms to show up with a squad car while he rattled off the Arrest Rites above the din. The perp made a half-hearted gesture at struggling but it was obvious that one leg had locked up underneath him, the other shaky and barely able to support his weight.

Jim Jones, badge #456, rolled down the street in a department issue Crown Vic, his flashing lights dispersed the crowd, and took the handcuffed man out of Ethan's custody. The detective grinned brightly and slapped the taller man on his well-developed shoulders.

"Jimmy, excellent timing. I was just starting to think we'd have to walk."

"That wouldn't do." He grinned down at Ellison and slammed the squad door on the crook's disgruntled expression. "You need a ride back to the station, sir?"

"No, but I left my car parked about a mile back, mind giving me a ride?"

"Not a problem."

Ethan buckled himself into the passenger seat. "How long have we know each other Jimmy? Almost a year now?"

Jim laughed and pulled away from the curb. "Sounds about right, since my first day in the precinct."

"Right, so, I think that means you can call me Ethan, don't you? It's not like I'm your _boss_ or something." He quirked a sly grin across the car and directed them to the alley he'd had to ditch his non-department issued vehicle—a sleek, midnight blue Audi A5 eighteen months from being paid off. He blew out a relieved breath to see it sitting undisturbed across the alley mouth.

"Thanks Jim, see you back down at the station."

Pioneer Square was quiet for late on a Friday night as he crossed south into his home turf. The Seattle South Precinct worked out of an old, worn down red brick building fronted by large windows that let in too many stares during summer and too much cold air during winter. Ethan parked haphazardly out front and sauntered inside. The night crew hunched over their desks and barely blinked at his entrance but he wasn't deterred, he was going to enjoy the strut in his stride as long as it lasted. The front desk sergeant snorted at him and jabbed a pen at the holding cells.

"Jones brought your guy in and processed him already, got him bunking in the drunk tank seeing as how someone saw fit to hit him with an unauthorized use of force."

"If by 'unauthorized use of force' you mean 'totally authorized use of magic,' then great," Ethan bared his teeth, a challenge. Members of the general public weren't the only ones chronically critical of magic. He felt his good mood evaporating almost as quickly as it had come.

He jerked a few forms free from behind Reception and slipped quietly into the winding rabbit warren. Vice and Major Crimes got their own floors, course, while everyone else was crammed in together on the ground level, different units separated from each other by towering, antique file cabinets, coat racks and bookcases overflowing with papers and yellowing reference texts. Ethan's desk was wedged in a dark corner, as far away from light and fresh air as it could get and surrounded by a small sea of empty space.

He barely even registered on the official North American thaumaturgical scale as a warlock but his family had the (un)fortunate honor of being widely... _known_. The other detectives were mostly good fellas, hardworking, nose to the grindstone, more or less friendly and even helpful if it didn't cost them too much. They weren't afraid of him, per se, they weren't even especially concerned by working with the paranormal most of the time; the guys who worked with you out in the field, in the thick of it, rarely were. It was just that, like and unlike his family, Ethan had a reputation.

By all rights, he should have been a powerful mage. Should have been able to tap into unheard of magical resources. His blood said he should have been a natural. He'd attended a well-respected wizarding school in the Great Northern, studied spells and runes and theory craft, only to return home a disappointment, barely able to cobble together enough power to trip up his enemies in the heat of the moment or create the merest ball of artificial luminescence. To be honest, and he was occasionally honest, Ethan was more prone to accidents—the odd, magical misfire—than anything else and the guys on the floor knew it.

"Heard you got that lingerie sniffer down around near Pike Place. How'd you figure it out? Was it the panties falling out of his back pocket?" Grayson from forensics perched on the edge of his desk with a comical leer. "Got something nice for me to process?"

"Don't be disgusting." Ethan didn't bother looking up, just rolled the first report page into his half-rusted typewriter and aligned the type guide with the blank space for his badge number.

Grayson winced and laughed a little. "Boxers then? A nice pair of compression shorts?"

"Seriously, not helping. Would you believe it was the result of careful observation and dedicated police work?"

"Do I look like the _Post-Intelligencer_?"

"Well, I'll have you know that's the truth." Ethan sneered a little and typed with an overabundance of focus. "Now piss off, I want to get out of here before the night's totally wasted."

" _SPM_ , what did you do? Hex the guy?"

Ethan grimaced to himself. He really wasn't a fan of Grayson, who was a busybody and too snide by half, all of it hidden under a thin veneer of joviality. "I did my job. Why don't you go do yours."

Across the street, the clock tower began ticking out the hour: midnight. Ethan sat frozen, breathless. Midnight was a powerful moment, all sorts of strange things could happen. It also marked the true beginning of the night shift, when all the really loony shit started rolling in. He shot a significant look at Grayson who rolled his eyes—"Fine, fine, be that way" —but also smarmed his way off of Ethan's desk and back into the maze. He could hear a distant phone start ringing, but that was all, a lone phone.

The hour ticked past without any howling or nearby explosions and Ethan sank back in his chair. The standard police form _Supernatural-Paranormal-Magic_ , or SPM, jammed between the platen and the paper feeder and he cursed, feeding it off the machine, running an irritated hand across the wrinkles and threading it again, resuming where he'd left off. Thirty minutes later he grabbed his personal effects, locking his gun in his desk drawer—there wouldn't be time to run home before he hit the Friday night club scene—and slipped out the back entrance where the desk Sarge couldn't catch him and glare distastefully.

Ethan hummed to himself all the way to his car, pleased and more than a little self-satisfied.

He'd been tracking this particular lingerie klepto all week, and he wasn't about to admit that Grayson was right to his face, but he had noticed the guy thanks to a distinctive bit of Agent Provocateur lace spilling out of his jacket pocket. The garment, worth upwards of five hundred dollars, had been lifted off a boutique downtown on Wednesday, the latest in a string of hits that began back in January. It had taken the stores involved almost five months to notice that this was something more than just your average shoplifting. Ethan had lucked out when the perp struck the same week they'd called him in to investigate and his luck had held when he'd literally found himself flirting with the guy early on Friday night at an outdoor Bar & Grill.

Feeling full of hubris and satisfied with a week tied up cleanly, Ethan was fully prepared to enjoy his Friday night before it completely disappeared. Club Barlow, named for its owner, a former hockey player with a ridiculous attachment to Euro pop, would do just the trick. The clientele never failed to offer up a mix of overgrown working professionals looking to loosen up on the dance floor with the latest dubstep.

Ethan wasn't much of a dancer these days. He hadn't been much of one when he was younger either, but a string of flings in his early twenties had left him with a few moves. Tonight, he found a free seat at the bar and ordered two fingers of top shelf Johnny Walker to start.

"And what are we celebrating?" The man leaning close had a nice enough smile and a well-fitted suit. Ethan glanced from his blond, neatly groomed hair, all the way to his pristine red converse and grinned a little.

"Who said anything about celebrating? Maybe I just like whiskey."

"My mistake?"

He sipped his drink, rolling the taste of earth and smoke across his tongue and angled his body towards the stranger, "Maybe not, why don't you stick around for a bit and we'll see."

Ethan had a good feeling this guy was just what he needed to unwind: a year or two younger than Ethan's twenty-eight, maybe a little vanilla, but comfortable and biddable. He ran a finger across the lip of his glass where his mouth had left stray droplets of liquor and purposefully sucked them off his skin. He felt a gratified twitch in his cock when the man's eyes followed the movement.

"Clay." The blond tipped his drink in a salute and gestured for the bartender.

"A pleasure, I hope." Ethan grinned back.

#

Pat grimaced at the thick scent of blood hanging in the air, slicking the dirty side street and the narrow walls on either side. His wolf twisted restlessly in his chest, uneasy with the close quarters and the tangible feeling of death surrounding them. He pushed down the feeling, intent on not allowing it to distract him from doing his fucking _job_.

A girl lay there in the darkness before him, torn to shreds and splattered across the scene, her guts a disquieting shade of pink under florescent lights.

"My god, Clanahan, it's not even the full moon."

Pat twitched and turned his dark gaze on the lead patrolman. "You assume this was a wolf."

The human snorted, "You think it _wasn't_? In this neighborhood?" He gestured broadly at the mess of flesh and blood and hair, "You ever see a _person_ kill like that? 'Cause I sure haven't."

"Maybe you should get out more," Pat murmured under his breath.

Pat was well aware of his reputation throughout the South precinct, the berth other officers gave him. It wasn't that they walked around on eggshells and they'd never been outright unfriendly, at least not most of them. It was instinct more than anything, giving the apex predator his space, keeping your head down just enough that you didn't antagonize the other creature in the room who could legitimately tear out your throat on a bad day. Or a good one. They were good instincts; the kind he could appreciate, even if he was the only one aware of them on a conscious level. Humans were weird animals by his standards, so far removed from their own nature he honestly didn't know how they managed to feed and clothe themselves most days.

But whatever respectful, halting camaraderie he might have had with the other guys in the South sputtered and died the day he lost his partner Adam Sloan: human, surprisingly academic for a guy who willingly investigated the most violent crimes in the city, friendly and well liked, and dead because he'd been too friendly with the wrong kind of wolf in the wrong part of town one night. He died the day before the full moon, when the pull rushed through their veins like silver, burning.

Pat wasn't proud of his reaction, but he wasn't exactly ashamed either. To him, Adam had been pack.

The disco-ball lights of another squad car lit the scene in swaths of pink and blue, refracting, and announced the arrival of his captain. Pat greeted her with a dispassionate nod and led the way back behind the police tape.

"This is going to be ugly." Jordan Augustus was a twenty year veteran of the Seattle Police Department, barely thirty-nine years old, tall and fit. Her pale hazel eyes and white teeth flashed from out of a sun-burnished complexion—tan all year round even in Washington thanks to her First Nations heritage.

He hummed in agreement and watched the forensics guys bag body parts.

"I mean, really—shit." She glanced around them, sharp eyes sweeping the buildings, noting the street names, all of it, taking a breath and pinning him again where he stood with a look. "This is disputed territory isn't it?" she snorted before he could answer and gestured for him to follow. He did.

Jordan Augustus was not _wolf_ but it couldn't have mattered less, she was exactly the kind of alpha every cell in his body strained to follow. If he had just a little less pride, he'd be all but yapping at the heels of her sensible leather boots, begging for praise and attention. As it was, he flanked her silently, just behind and to her left, vibrating with energy screaming _this is where I belong_ with every loaded step.

They pulled back to a distance where the blood and gore wouldn't be quite so pungent to a human nose and Jordan turned back to survey the scene. The crush of humanity trying to look busy when they were all just there to gawk. The flashbulbs of newsmen lit the night from behind the tape, desperate to get a glimpse of the body.

"We won't be able to keep this completely clear of the papers but I'm going to do my damnedest anyways."

He nodded mutely.

"This is going to be a firestorm without the human populations stoking the flames."

A snort; she glanced at him and smirked, closer to a grimace.

"I need you lead on the investigation."

"I know."

"You ready for it?"

He very carefully didn't fidget under her calculating gaze. "Not like we have a whole lot of other options. All the other brethren are on SWAT." He flicked a dark gaze up to meet her eyes. "It's the same game it always has been."

"Yeah," she sighed and slid back into her squad car, "we both know that's a lie."

Pat winced a bit at the dismissal, watching her tail lights slip through the crowd, honking pointedly at the crush of press and disappearing into the night.

"Detective? Hey, hey detective, uh—"

"What?" he snarled unchecked, at the forensic tech trying to get his attention. The other man narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisted up in a disgusted moue before he schooled his expression into careful neutrality.

"Medical Examiner is done with her pre-lim. We're getting ready to transport the body back to city, if there's anything else you need, better get it now, eh?" His eyes were cool and dismissive.

"Everything's been photographed?"

"Finished before we let anyone start traipsing through. It's SOP."

"Then I'm good." A beat, then he jerked out a hand to catch the other man's attention again. "Keep it away from the press, don't let them see anything and make sure none of your people _say_ anything."

"This isn't my first rodeo, Detective. Don't have to tell me how to do my job, eh?"

"Sure," Pat mumbled to himself, "and the first leak we'll see on tomorrow's front page is going to be—"

He tensed as the scent finally permeated the stench of death, another wolf, fresh—current. Every sense went on alert, the hair on his arms standing on edge beneath the wrinkled cotton of his dress shirt and blazer. Pat swept his eyes across the darkness, letting the wolf stalk closer to the surface, sharpening his senses, washing out the color and sharpening his night vision until he could register and catalog every flicker of movement.

His nose strained to filter out the scents of cops and humanity, blood and gore, and narrow in on that one... ah, there it was. He moved through the scene like a shark who's smelled blood.

"You shouldn't be here," he grumbled low, the sound reverberating through his chest and coming out of his human form throat as an almost inhuman growl.

"Why is that, officer?"

"You tell me what happens when one of the Maccabees finally shows their tail?"

"This is disputed—"

"Don't give me the party line, the whole block reeks of them. You may not agree but just at the moment they own this strip of hell so I'd suggest you shove off." Pat edged closer to the strange wolf and inhaled as deeply and unobtrusively as he could manage, memorizing the man's scent and cataloging it in his mind, square in the growing file opened for this case. You couldn't really make an ID off just a person's scent but a little in-depth snooping, he could probably pinpoint the wolf's home territory, his pack, and he'd sure as hell recognize it if he ever came across it again.

The wolf glared across the distance between them and sniffed. "You think you know anything? Go back to playing pet dog," he spun on his heel.

Pat scrubbed both hands through the short, dark strands of his hair making it stand on end and blew out a harsh breath. His nose stung.

"God damn it."

He'd appreciated it four years ago when Jordan, then deputy lieutenant in charge of tactical operations, went to bat for his place in Major Crimes. She'd beat off three other departments, including SWAT, with just about everything except a stick to keep his ass under her command. He's enjoyed the recognition that came from being able to outperform eighty percent of the other officers in his division. But he'd been too young and inexperienced then to see the burden that came hand in hand with being homicide's pet wolf.

It seemed like all he did after that first year or two was put out supernatural fires across the South precinct, the sort of messy violent crimes everyone else was too afraid of touching and too proud of admitting. It was a responsibility easier to bear with Adam watching his back. Now, all Pat could feel was the weight of eyes, the expectation. Half of the department waiting for him to snap and the rest waiting for him to fuck up.

Pat could smell the rain gathering close in smog heavy clouds. He turned to make sure the evidence was processed and on its way back to the station before the weather could wash away anything important.

#

"Nice place," Ethan mumbled into Clay's mouth.

"Yeah?" he breathed between kisses, stopping to pull away as if he was going to look around. "Thanks, I—"

"Busy here." Ethan wrapped an insistent hand around the back of his head and pulled him back in close. The man bent his taller frame to accommodate Ethan's demanding kisses, thick warm tongue smoothing between his eager lips to trace the roof of his mouth. Ethan groaned into the kiss and held on tighter, murmuring encouragement when broad hands gripped him by the hips and slammed him back into the front door.

"Yes," he hissed as the other man trailed kisses down the pale column of his throat. Ethan arched back against the unyielding door and the hard, warm body of the other man. He nipped at a nicely shaped ear, licking to soothe the sting, nails digging in hard. "Got a bed in this place?"

Clay pressed in tighter against him, one thigh grinding up hard against Ethan's prick through two pairs of slacks.

"God, oh—" Ethan gasped a little and smiled.

Clay moved back up to his mouth and kissed him, tongue thrusting rhythmically between his lips. Ethan moaned at their loss a second later.

"Come on." Clay took him by the hand, voice a little breathless and lips already bruised looking, and led the way through the comfortably modern flat.

Ethan wasn't really paying attention but the detective in him couldn't help cataloging the presence of unframed art on the walls—all of it bright, abstract and a little unfinished, possibly by an acquaintance—nice furniture, worn, but a step up from university graduate, an untouched kitchen. His dick may have been straining the zipper tab of his work pants, but it was almost impossible to turn off his brain.

Nosy, rude, too observant: these were not the sort of characteristics people looked for in their one night stands—or their life partners, if we're being honest—but it made him good at his job and that was all that mattered.

The bedroom was dimly lit by city light through balcony windows, the drapes left carelessly parted, but Ethan made out the shape of a plush queen before Clay turned them and dropped him back into the sheets. He rolled with it, catching a hand in the other man's suiting and pulling him down with the movement.

Clay huffed out a startled breath, smelling a little of scotch and soda. They weren't really drunk, just relaxed. Ethan licked across Clay's lips and laughed when the other man grimaced and sat back on his heels.

"Jesus." He wiped off his mouth and shrugged out of his suit coat, working at his cufflinks while Ethan reached up and attacked the buttons on his shirt. He rolled off the bed to lay everything out more or less flat on the only chair in the room and gave Ethan a significant look.

Without losing his cocky grin Ethan wiggled out of his pants, toeing off his shoes and losing his shirt with a casual flick of the wrist. All of it ended up in a tangle on the floor. Clay shook his head but crawled back up over him, scattering kisses across his ribs and chest, licking across his collarbone and settling at his mouth once again. Ethan tangled his hands in thick blond hair, winding the soft strands around his fingers and holding on tight.

Their cocks slid together, a delicious drag of friction and heat, nowhere near slick enough.

Ethan pulled Clay off his mouth, panting into the space between them, "You should definitely fuck me."

He blinked, "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you got stuff?"

The offer seemed to have short circuited a few brain cells. Clay blinking at him for a minute before nodding, his voice strained, "Yeah, shit, hold on." He rummaged through the sleek glass and stainless steel bedside table, coming up eagerly with lube and a condom.

Ethan pulled him back down into a lingering kiss before he pulled away with an expectant look. He squeezed the other man's hip, ran an appreciative hand over his side before pushing him back, opening enough space between them to roll over onto his stomach.

Clay's hands stroked down the planes of his back, tracing muscle and pale skin all the way to his waist. The hands disappeared and Ethan heard him opening the lube, the wet sound as he squeezed some out onto his fingers. He sank into the comfortable give of the bed, pushing a pillow away from his head, losing it in the dim light, and burying his head in his folded arms. He shivered with the first cool touch at his ass, breathing out softly when Clay spread him open and gently eased a finger into him.

He considered himself a pretty honest switch, preferring to neither bottom or top exclusively and he certainly didn't always bottom for his one night stands but it had been a busy a week and Ethan felt like lying back and letting someone else drive tonight. He liked to think he was a pretty good judge of character, he had to be for work, and it translated well with his hookups. Clay gave off a good vibe, the sort of professional guy responsible enough Ethan felt comfortable taking it from him and just arrogant enough that he'd make it good.

The second finger took a little more effort, stretching him open patiently. Clay crooked his fingers, stroking firmly into his ass a few times before he found that spot that lit all of Ethan's nerve endings on fire. He gasped softly, eyes slipping shut so he could just bask in the feeling.

"There?" Clay asked, his voice thick with arousal.

"Right there, give me more."

Clay pulled out his fingers, dribbled a little more lube into the crack of Ethan's ass and pushed back in with three fingers this time, twisting them up to the second knuckle and rubbing against his prostate.

His whole body convulsed and he couldn't keep from thrusting helplessly into the bed, cock jerking and leaking with pre-come into the bedspread.

"Fuck, yes, that's good. That's good, I'm good, fuck me."

Clay paused, breath coming out in soft, warm puffs against his shoulder, fingers buried deep in ass. He leaned down and pressed a wet kiss against the back of Ethan's neck before he pulled out and settled back on his knees. The condom wrapper opening was loud against the backdrop of their breathing and the distant sound of cars driving by on the street below. Then impatient hands were gripping his thighs, drawing them apart, pulling him down the bed. Clay thrust against him, rubbing his dick through the slick between his ass cheeks before taking himself in hand, the other gripping Ethan firmly by the hip, and entering him in one long, smooth slide, nothing hesitant about it.

Ethan groaned and jerked into the sensation, telling his body to _relax_ , made his muscles loosen against the intrusion and shivering into it. Clay pulled him up on his knees until his head hung low between his braced elbows. It hurt a little until his body adjusted.

"You okay?" Clay's voice sounded strained but Ethan appreciated the care he was taking, not just thrusting but holding still buried to the root.

He pushed himself up a bit and twisted his neck, "Kiss me."

Clay groaned and complied. The angle was awkward but Ethan twisted deeper, pushing his ass back flush to Clay's hips and pushing his tongue into the other man's mouth. They broke apart and Ethan collapsed back, arching his back and his shoulder blades and clenching down hard on the cock inside him.

"Move, I'm good."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Clay was pulling almost all the way out and thrusting forward, bottoming out again with a heartfelt groan. He set up a steady rhythm, both hands gripped tight to Ethan's hips, one slipping up and against his back, pressing into his spine until he arched into the thrusts, the angle shifting until they found his prostate again. Ethan gasped and clenched, Clay groaning and jerking into him.

"Shit!" It was possible he'd come out of this with a beautiful set of fingerprints on his right hip and Ethan planned on enjoying them. Clay's thrusts picked up speed, hitting that spot over and over until Ethan was practically sobbing into the bedding. He threw a hand out to brace against the headboard.

"Oh, Jesus, you feel fantastic." Clay scraped his nails down his back and leaned forward, he wrapped an arm around Ethan's chest, thumbing a nipple. Ethan whined at the sensation.

Every thrust sparked a line of fire from his ass to his balls but it wasn't enough. He pushed his back into Clay's chest until it moved and he could sit up on his heels, Clay in close behind him, still thrusting.

"What—?"

Clay sounded wrecked in Ethan's ear but he couldn't care less at this point, lost in the feel of strong thighs spreading him wide. He let his head fall back onto the other man's shoulder, one arm still braced to hold him up as he reached for his straining prick. Clay kept up the quick rhythm, jerking up short and hard into his body. His breath ruffled the curling hairs at the nape of his neck and Ethan shivered when the other man mouthed sloppy at his earlobe.

A second hand snaked around his side and rubbed gently across Ethan's slick belly, which trembled, muscles contracting. Ethan pressed his eyes shut and stripped his cock, slicking the pre-come at the head down across the shaft.

"Tell me you're close. You are, aren't you?" Clay breathed into his ear.

"Yes. So fucking—" his words got lost in a shout when warm fingers tangled in his own, squeezing almost too tight and he came, body clenching and shivering, come painting his chest and the bedspread. Strong arms, like iron bands, helped hold him up as Clay thrust raggedly into his ass, finally losing his rhythm and coming with a low guttural sound.

Ethan slid forward into the bed, too fucked out to care about the impressive wet spot he'd made. Clay stayed braced above him, rolling his shoulders and finally grabbing his cock, pulling out and getting up to dispose of the condom.

"You staying?" he called out from the bathroom.

Ethan flicked open his eyes from where he'd buried his face in the sheets, feeling pleasantly floaty and relaxed.

"Do you mind?"

Clay emerged with a damp hand towel and shrugged. "It's fine, but let me clean up first a little, I hate dried come on the sheets."

He snorted and rolled over. Efficient hands wiped down his soft cock, squeezing his balls lightly so that he gasped. Clay disposed of the towel like he seemed to do everything else—carefully in its place, in the hamper—and pulled the blankets out from under Ethan's limp body. He arranged them both beneath the warm covers. Ethan tangled their legs up and propped his chin against Clay's smooth chest.

Clay ran his hand back through Ethan's hair, sweeping the sweaty strands out of his eyes, his gaze unreadable. Ethan leaned up and kissed him, then he lay back and rolled over, digging himself into the extra pillow and the blankets, enjoying the warmth radiating out along his back. He fell asleep with the other man's chest brushing his skin lightly with every breath, not quite cuddling.

## **CHAPTER TWO**

##

His phone was ringing.

Ethan came awake with a start. He rolled to a seated position at the side of the bed, disoriented when sunlight blinded him. Someone snored quietly at his back. All at once, his memory of last night slammed into his brain, body—well, specifically his ass—putting up protest at the sudden movement.

His phone was still ringing. Ethan groaned softly and went looking for his pants.

"What?" his voice sounded like sandpaper over volcanic rock, low, scratchy and a little sexy if he said so himself.

"You sound terrible Ellison." His captain on the other hand, sounded perfectly put together and more than a little amused. It was seven o'clock on a Saturday and she sounded like it was ten AM on a Wednesday, the one day a week everyone knew she didn't have any scheduled meetings, and one of the initiates remembered to get her coffee right.

"Cap."

"I want your ass in my office in twenty."

"I already closed the boutique case, ma'am, and I filed my preliminary report last night before I left for the weekend. You should find it in—"

"Did I say anything about panties, Lieutenant? My office, nineteen minutes."

Ethan cursed into the silence when she hung up on him and started dragging on clothes haphazardly.

"Hey."

He dropped back onto the bed to tie his shoes. Proprietary fingers traced the dip of his spine, snagging in the waistband of his pants.

"Sneaking out?"

Ethan mustered up the flash of a grin over his shoulder. "Not sneaking. My boss called me in to work."

"On a Saturday?"

He shrugged. "That's the job, crime doesn't take weekends off."

The hand disappeared from his skin.

"I had a good time last night." He could see Clay smile a little out of the corner of his eye. His phone was still out so he grabbed it and turned to tuck his knees up underneath him, "What's your number? We should do this again, if you're interested."

Clay stretched out a lazy hand, taking the phone and tapping at it for a minute before he handed back, "Sure. Go catch bad guys."

Ethan rolled his eyes, grabbed the other man's chin abruptly and stuck his tongue in his mouth until he groaned under him. He pulled back, smirking a little and rolled to his feet.

He'd left his car in garage parking near the club the night before so he jogged a couple blocks over to the bus line that would take him downtown. He arrived at the precinct almost forty minutes later, great time for Seattle traffic, but he wasn't looking forward to Captain Augustas' displeasure. He hit the stairwell and ran up to the second floor.

The precinct captain kept her office on the same floor as Major Crimes, nestled in a sea of harried detectives on any given day, all floor to ceiling glass and wood framed. It was situated almost exactly in the middle of the building, the literal heart of the station and gave her a 360º view of the floor.

Through the glass Ethan could just make out Augustas behind her desk and another man slouched in one of the visitor's chairs. He straightened his shoulders and knocked.

"For someone who looks like they just rolled out of bed you certainly took your time."

"It's Saturday, I _did_ just roll out of bed," he sniped back.

She looked at him with a cool, arched eyebrow but no matter how much he felt like wilting, Ethan just straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes right back at her. He firmly believed that a woman like Jordan Augustas appreciated directness in other people. At the least, he liked to tell himself this.

The other man in the room twitched visibly in the corner of Ethan's field of vision. He felt him turn and the prickle of eyes raking over him from head to toe. They burned into him, an almost tangible weight. He had to stifle the urge to turn and meet them head on.

Augustas smiled a little, unexpectedly and leaned back at her desk, the vintage rolling chair squeaking loudly and breaking the tension in the air.

"I ever tell you, you're a real piece of work Ellison?"

He smirked. "Every time you see me Cap."

"Sit."

He sat, glancing quickly at the other man. He'd turned away again and Ethan only caught a glimpse of his profile, the upward turn of a strong nose, dark broody eyebrows and close cropped black hair.

Augustas nods to a file on her desk and Ethan picks it up.

"I'm temporarily reassigning you to homicide."

"Homicide?"

"That's not a problem is it?"

"No sir, but it's not really my area of expertise."

"No, but like you said, you finished the panty snatcher case—"

The man beside him shifted ominously and coughed quietly. Ethan sat stiffly.

"And don't give me any shit about cold cases. I want you on the Walker case. You're working with Clanahan here, he'll be lead, you're working support."

"Support? What does that even mean?" Ethan muttered, flipping open the manila case file. He jerked a little at the crime scene photos splashed across the first page of the preliminary report. The first was a stark, full color shot of the body, what was left of it, taken with flash under artificial light. Painfully honest in it's unflinching reality.

"Jesus Captain, what is this?"

"Murder, Detective."

"I know I said this wasn't my expertise but, this _really_ isn't my expertise. This isn't even in the same neighborhood."

She looked unimpressed by his outburst. Ethan tried to appeal to the silent Clanahan, turning an imploring look on the other detective. He remained stoic, eyes fixed on the messy bulletin board behind Augustas' head.

Ethan sighed and ran his hand across his face, closing the file and setting it back on her desk. "Why me?"

"I'm sure you've noticed, the district isn't exactly crawling with paranormals. If you'd kept reading, this case is smack dab in the middle of the Maccabee-Tremblé conflict."

Ethan felt his eyes bug out a little and he stared at Augustas, "And you want _me?_ You've got to be kidding. I don't know shit about werewolf politics."

Her smirked widened, "But you knew I was talking about werewolves, didn't you." He opened his mouth to keep arguing but she cut him off with a sharp slicing motion of her hand. "Save it Ellison, I honestly don't give a shit what you think about it. You're assigned to this case, get over whatever your problem is, and if it's squeamishness well... I guess you should take a good hard look at why you're a cop. Do you follow me? Help Clanahan and don't screw this up. Now both of you, get out of here and find the bastard who did this."

She tapped the closed file with her pointer finger, with finality; it sounded like a judge's gavel in Ethan's head.

He stood numbly, grabbed the folder and followed the other detective's swift exit. The other man—Clanahan, _Clanahan_ , he repeated to himself—didn't stop, all but marching through the sea of suddenly silent officers at their desks. Ethan had to practically jog to keep up.

The other man halted at a messy desk near a bank of windows on the west side of the building, holstered his service pistol in the shoulder holster he was wearing under his suit jacket and grabbed a notebook out of the top drawer. He said nothing, didn't even look at Ethan, just started walking again, blowing through the double doors at the front of the room and hitting the stairwell.

"Hey! Shit." Ethan ran after him, and tried not to yell too obviously, "Hey, where are you going?" They clattered to the first floor and out into the fresh air. Irritated, Ethan grabbed Clanahan's arm. The other detective stopped suddenly and spun around, eyes dark blue, expression almost angry.

"Let go."

Ethan threw up his hands, the universal sign of _don't shoot_ and sneered, "Hello, my name is Ethan Ellison, I'm your new partner. What's your name?"

The other man glared at him silently, his whole body tensed, shoulders a sharp line beneath the dark black line of his suit. Even hunched a little, it was obvious he had a solid couple of inches on Ethan in height and probably twenty pounds of muscle. He felt an excited little shiver race down his spine at the intensity in those eyes. Ethan inhaled deeply, watching Clanahan watch him do it, and started.

"You're a werewolf!" he blurted. He slapped a hand across his own mouth, embarrassed by the tactless outburst, and grimaced. "Shit, you're Patrick Clanahan aren't you?"

He broke eye contact briefly, some childhood lecture about etiquette flitting across his thoughts before he could stop it and when he looked back Clanahan had finally stopped staring at him.

"Listen to me, you're here because Augustas' is worried, unnecessarily, about my," he grimaced, "emotional state. I do not need a two-bit _magician_ stomping all over my crime scene and hexing my suspects."

Ethan felt his mouth drop open a little, outraged. "Seriously?" He hand waved the child in him who still remembered being lectured on Rules of Conduct and stomped—okay yes, he could be prone to "stomping" but not at crime scenes—right into the wolf's personal space. He ducked and squirmed into his eye line and waited until he looked at him.

"Fuck. You. Clanahan." Ethan spun on his heel and stalked back into the station. A couple guys greeted him with catcalls and grins, he shrugged it off, threw himself into his desk chair and glared at the neatly organized stacks of papers without really seeing anything. "Shit."

#

Realistically, Pat knew Jordan had waited to tell him why she'd asked him to report in that morning because she wanted to avoid the argument that would have inevitably followed. The argument that she would have won, in the end, because she was his boss. But he didn't have to appreciate the news being sprung on him like this.

Pat could smell the other man before he'd even stepped through the door. That distinctive slap-in-the-face smell of ozone he equated with magic detectable underneath sweat and semen. He tuned out of the exchange, breathing carefully, trying to figure out what about this character Jordan thought he'd find useful.

There was another scent overlaying everything, another man's. Pat glanced sharply up at this Ellison fellow and stared baldly, more than a little surprised at what his nose was telling him: the man had had sex in the past thirty-six hours with at least two separate partners and after the last one, he hadn't even bothered showering before reporting to work. Pat grimaced to himself and flicked a baleful look across at Jordan. She ignored him.

The new guy was arguing and Pat might have expected to smell nervousness or tension but his senses were overwhelmed by the smell of _sex_ , the air was practically sticky with it and the heat radiating from his wrinkled clothes when he sat down next to Pat.

He felt his body coiling with tension and his thoughts straying from the conversation, distracting him even from the fact that his captain had just saddled him with a new partner while his nose burned. Then they were being dismissed and he all but fled the room, desperate for a breath of fresh air, for space. But the other man, Ellison, was up and moving with him, actually keeping pace. He snagged Pat on the precinct steps, startling him badly and he couldn't stop the wolf's instinct to turn and snarl.

Pat expected fear but the other man's scent didn't fluctuate and his replies were sharp, sarcastic, until his thoughts seemed to catch up with his mouth and recognition flooded his expression.

"Shit, you're Patrick Clanahan aren't you?"

He liked nothing about this situation. Jordan was wrong, he was fine. It had been six months and he'd been doing just fine working by himself. He didn't need a partner, especially not someone like Ethan Ellison: whiny, weak-stomached, trickster.

"The only reason you're here is because our Captain has the misguided notion that I need someone watching my back. I don't. I don't need some _magician_ running after me and getting in the way, got it?"

He felt flushed with irritation, tense and puffed up, looking down into the hapless expression of his new "partner." Pat watched with a kind of detached amusement as the other man's face paled, then reddened in visible anger. Ellison squared his shoulders and stepped into Pat's shadow. The proximity made all the hair on his neck stand up and the wolf in him shifted restlessly.

Ellison thrust his chin up until their eyes met. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and perfectly calm, it sent shivers down Pat's spine despite the content of the words themselves.

"Fuck. You. Clanahan."

Pat watched him stalk back into the precinct with an unexpected hard-on. He had to shake himself like a dog after several protracted minutes staring at nothing, futilely trying to dislodge the fog clouding his more reasonable thoughts. Thoughts about... about the case, not about what he wanted to do to Ellison's ripe, red mouth—

"Get a hold of yourself Patrick."

He blew out a harsh breath, trying to clear his sense of smell, the air still redolent with the lingering smell of spunk and sweat and anger from Ellison; he could practically taste it. Pat embraced the irritation burning in his own gut, at Jordan and his new partner, letting it propel him into action.

His car, an old beat up '69 Camaro he'd inherited from his father and never had any time to spend fixing up, sat baking in a patch of sunlight. 7:30 am and the early morning fog had already started to burn off. Pat hadn't bothered to put the top on, daring the weather gods to rain on the cracked leather interior.

Pat jangled the keys in his pocket, pulling them out, tossing them into the air, catching them contemplatively. Almost against his will, his eyes strayed back over his shoulder to the precinct. He should just leave the other guy here. He wasn't lying when he said he didn't need a partner. Well, he didn't _want_ a partner and right now that felt like more than enough reason.

The car creaked under his weight as he jumped inside, over the door in one fluid move. His hands caressed the bare metal steering wheel, smoothing down and around where the leather had been stripped off in the nineties and never replaced.

He struck the steering wheel with a loud _thud_ , a growl erupting from his throat and shattering the silence, and the entire vehicle rocked.

He threw open the car door and hurled himself onto the street, getting his feet under him and striding back inside.

He had no idea where to go so he followed his nose. It led him down the ground floor corridor, all dingy black and white laminate and vaulted ceilings, to the main squad room. Even at this hour, detectives and officers were crowded in at their desks. He looked around, caught the eye of a young, nervous looking guy who immediately jerked his head down and began pecking at his keyboard. Pat zeroed in, slapped his hands down on the desk and snarled.

"Where's Ellison?"

"Uh, ehm, I don't—I—" his voice trailed away into a pitiful stammer and then nothing, his mouth moving without any actual sound emerging.

Pat wanted to roll his eyes.

The officer swallowed and pointed at the floor. "Showers," he squeaked and Pat decided to leave before the guy pissed himself right there in his chair.

There was a gym in the basement, if you could call it that. It was more like an old neighborhood boxing ring with a treadmill and weight bench shoved in a corner. There was also a unisex locker room and showers.

The equipment room was empty and Pat prowled through to the lockers, eyes alert. It was hard to smell anything down here. Seventy-five years of history, of police officers sweating and bleeding into stained canvass. The entire basement reeked of too much humanity.

The sound of running water cut off as he stepped into the locker area and Pat froze. He looked over in time to meet the wide green eyes of a very wet Ethan Ellison, a threadbare towel slung haphazardly across his hips. His neck and face flushed, the color spreading down across his chest, and one hand went to the towel in a white-knuckled grip.

"Uh, what?" Ellison's expression shuttered, more confused than embarrassed.

Pat coughed and cleared his throat. He reminded himself that he had nothing to be embarrassed about. The other man was smaller, an inch or two shorter than Pat, shoulders more compact, slender arms and waist but still fit. The long, elegant lines of muscle shifted under pale skin and, when he finally turned back to his open locker, a surprising amount of ink.

"Was there something you wanted?"

He startled a little; he tried to cover his reaction by leaning back into the opposite bank of lockers and crossing his arms.

"Jordan didn't really brief you."

"Jor—you mean, Captain Augustas." Ellison slanted a look at him over his shoulder and pulled a familiar file out of his locker. He dropped it on the empty bench running lengthwise down the narrow row. "I don't suppose you decided to come back to fill me in on the details?"

Pat shrugged. Ellison snorted and turned away. Pat's eyes slid back across the other man's skin, tracing the loops and edges of a complex tattoo network. It began just below his left shoulder blade and covered most of his left side, dipping down just below where the waistband on his pants would lay—if he were wearing any pants—and then wrapped around his hip. The design was some sort of stylized tree with complex, looping branches and roots that wrapped around the trunk and were woven together in detailed Celtic knots before spreading out, all of it inked in delicate black strokes.

Without warning, Ellison dropped the towel. His skin prickled in the cool air, still flushed a delicate pink. Pat caught himself staring but couldn't seem to drag his eyes away. He breathed in deeply, noting the fresh clean smell of skin and cheap soap. Then the other man was pulling on a pair of dark blue boxers and turning around. He arched an dark eyebrow at Pat, stooped to pick up the towel, and ran it briskly through his hair, all the while maintaining eye contact.

"Well?"

"Well _what_?"

Ellison dropped the wet towel down onto the bench. "Well, why did you come back?" He pulled a wrinkled tee shirt out of his locker and shrugged it on, sitting down on the bench facing Pat and looked up at him expectantly, face neutral.

"Right." Pat gestured at the folder and said, "You mind?"

Ellison's mouth quirked but his gaze was cool. He shrugged and handed it over. "Be my guest."

Pat had the sudden feeling that he was being tested. He took the folder, forced out a quiet thanks and flipped it open.

"Our vic is twenty-five year old Matilde Walker, she was found deceased in an alley off Renton Avenue just after midnight. CSU arrived at the scene at 12:32 AM, the first officer on scene had cordoned off the area pretty well, it didn't look like the public had a chance to tamper with anything obvious."

"Who made the 911 call?"

"Anonymous. I put in a request for Dispatch to pull the logs though it's unlikely we'll find anything there."

Ellison frowned a little and Pat explained, "Statistically speaking it's more likely someone stumbled over the crime scene and called it in. Not a lot we can learn from that. I got called to the scene just before 1 AM, and I was there most of the morning overseeing processing. The body was transported back to city morgue downtown and we're still waiting on the medical examiner's report."

He unpinned the crime scene photos from where they were held to the folder with a paperclip. They were all 6 x 8 glossy full-color images in crisp, high definition. The first was a picture of Matilde's face, clawed beyond recognition on one side. He held the photo out to Ellison and waited until he took it. The other man grimaced.

"How did we make the ID?"

"Wallet. Fingerprints should confirm, we're still waiting on them though."

Ellison blew out a heavy breath and slouched over until his elbows were braced against his bare knees, he was still dressed in just his boxers and a T-shirt. The locker room was warm thanks to residual heat from the shower.

"As you're aware, this location is right in the middle of a..."

"Pissing contest? Literally? Yeah."

Pat tensed at his tone, shifting his weight back to his feet. " _Territory dispute_ ," he growled.

"Whatever you want to call it, but I think I know a pissing match when I see one." Ellison rolled his eyes. "Who has control of this specific city block at the moment?"

Pat gritted his teeth and replied, "The Maccabees."

Ellison whistled and straightened. He handed back the photograph and gestured for the rest. Pat handed them over and watched him flip through them.

"You ever work anything like this before?" He tried to keep his voice free of judgement but he felt skeptical watching Ellison's expression shift from blank through disgust to horror. It wasn't a pleasant sight, death never was, but Matilde Walker hadn't just been murdered. She had been thoroughly and violently dismembered with very little method or order, and the result was horrific, even by Pat's standards.

"Jesus," Ellison breathed, coming to the end of the preliminary photos and shuffling them back together, turning them over in his lap so he didn't have to look at them. "No. It's like I told the captain, this isn't like anything I've worked, but you have."

Pat shrugged. His job wasn't nice but it was necessary and he helped people find closure.

"People don't usually wind up shredded in burglaries. I need to see the scene for myself, I can't get anything from these."

Ellison handed the photos back to Pat.

He frowned.

Ellison waved his hands around, obviously searching for the right words.

"It's complicated, I mean, I'm not a precog or a medium, anything like that. I can't get images or instant replay but if I'm at the scene I can still get impressions after a fashion. Could sense something useful, won't know until we get there, but a scene like this there should be _something_ left behind."

"You mean, something...psychic?"

Ellison glared and stood up. "Yeah, something _psychic,_ " he sneered. He turned away again and jerkily began pulling clothes and shoes out of locker, his shoulders a tense line. When he was done he paused, not quite looking at Pat whose gut churned unexpectedly.

"Well? Are we going to go? Or did you want to keep checking me out?"

A hot flush of embarrassment curdled whatever else he might have been feeling and Pat jerked to attention. He schooled his faced into a blank slate and left the room without a word. He could hear Ellison following him but he didn't look back. He didn't _let_ himself look back. They exchanged no further words all the way to the car or as Pat pointed them towards the scene of the crime.

#

Ethan wasn't sure what to think of this guy. There had been a moment there, in the locker room, when he'd felt the unmistakable heat of an appreciative gaze and it seemed like they'd been making actual progress but then, one step forward and three steps back—at this rate, he was going to get whiplash.

Even though it was Saturday, morning traffic in Seattle never took a day off, and they didn't get to the scene until after 9 in the morning. As they pulled up at the edge of the police tape, Ethan regretted not making Clanahan stop off for coffee first. This was going to be unpleasant; bad enough he had to do it sleep _and_ caffeine deprived.

Clanahan slammed his door, it startled Ethan and he stared balefully out of the vehicle. He didn't want to move. He couldn't seem to move his body. There was a small crowd of people gathered at the barricade, half of them were well dressed in their pajamas and bathrobes, and someone had left two patrol officers to guard the scene. Nothing like a murder scene and your morning bowl of cereal. There were reporters too, jostling to get a better position and just about everyone had some kind of recording device out.

"You're being ridiculous, just get out of the car," he murmured to himself.

"Hey, Ellison, get your ass in gear."

Clanahan wasn't looking at him. Ethan glared at the side of his head through the windshield glass, still trying to psych himself up enough to open the car door.

"Alright, I'm coming asshole." He wasn't sure just how good werewolf ears were but at that moment he couldn't care less. Patrick Clanahan was starting to show himself to be a bully and Ethan got enough of that without taking it from his supposed partner as well, thank you very much. He steeled himself, opened the door and stepped out into—

The smell of blood hit him like a shovel to the face. CSU had carefully packed up and removed the body, the guts, the...pieces, but they'd left everything else. A tent had been thrown up against an early morning drizzle, and they'd even removed the trash so that the only thing remaining were blank cement walls and blood. A lot of blood.

Ethan liked to think he had a good control of his nerves. He'd witnessed plenty of horrible things in his life, had experienced plenty of them himself at the hands of wizened schoolmasters and few less kind members of his own family, had witnessed unpleasant things on the job. This though, his stomach churned and he had to make every muscle in his body relax before sheer animal instinct propelled him back in the car.

He was glad then that he hadn't had time to eat breakfast yet. Losing it before 10 on a Saturday without a good excuse like say, a hangover, would have been a real shame.

"Ellison!"

"Tell me something, _Clanahan_ ," Ethan started talking in an effort to cover his reaction, "did they surgically remove all the patience from your body or were you just born this way? Stop and smell the gore for a second man. If there's one thing this place can tell us, it's you only live once. Am I right?"

The other man glared at him from under dark eyebrows and even darker hair. Ethan had heard some of the rumors about him—who at the South hadn't? Hell, who in the entire SPD hadn't heard some version of the story?

Handsome werewolf, heir-beta-whatever-apparent to the largest wolf clan in the city, becomes a simple police detective, investigating his own kind, helping the lowly humans. Who lost his partner. Who maybe killed his partner. Who was definitely _fucking_ his partner. It all depended on who you asked.

Ethan wasn't about to believe all the rumors, or any of them really. He smirked at the thought, imagined believing his own press. Rumor tended to shine a light on the path to truth though, for all it got wrong.

He scrubbed a hand across his nose, twitching the muscles in his hands and shoulders to get the blood flowing.

"How long until you have something?"

He glared at Clanahan, whose body screamed _tension_ even though his face remained completely blank. All but the eyes. His eyes, now that Ethan was looking, were a bright, intelligent blue that nevertheless seemed to flay the skin and snark right off him.

He turned back to the alley, he could hear the inquisitive murmurs of the crowd and the shutter of camera lenses documenting his every move. He swallowed his nausea and began picking his way between the numbered evidence markers.

Like just about anything a person could specialize at, being a really good medium required a calling, _passion_ , intuition. Women tended to make not only better medium's but precogs as well. They were just natural at the empathy and the interpersonal nature of it. In contrast, Ethan's own education in the north had focused on the physical aspects of magic. He'd studied potions and constructed spells and magical history. He hated to say it, but life at School Põhja had been an awful lot like life at Hogwarts, only without all the nice parts. And yes, if you asked him, all the fighting and death counted as nice.

The toes of his converse were rusty red and Ethan wasn't sure he'd be able to pick up anything here. He let his thoughts wander, his mind spiraling out away from his body, opening his senses to the things you couldn't just see with your eyes, hoping to catch something, anything. The trailing edge of a feeling was niggling at the back of his mind, the shadow of fear, the acrid taste of defeat in the back of his throat.

Clanahan twitched, his footsteps silent.

Ethan swallowed down bile and trailed a hand across the brick face, blood flaked off into the air.

"You probably don't need me to tell you—she walked into the alley alive?"

A disgruntled sigh.

"Right, I mean, obviously." He hunched his shoulders, forced himself to turn towards the worst of the blood, it sat in a congealed puddle at the epicenter of the attack. "Christ."

"Tell me you can get something more useful than that."

"I don't—look, no probably not." Ethan sighed in defeat, scrubbing a hand across his face, his eyes arrested by the coagulation.

"Then what the hell are we doing here?" The frustration was obvious in the other man's voice. Ethan was used to it.

"Well, I had to try. That's why I'm here isn't it? For the," he waggled his fingers in Clanahan's direction, "the magic?" He crouched down, breathing through the neck of his T-shirt. He was distracted, half aware of the other man's approach behind him, the unusual blood patterns, the—

His fingers just barely touched the surface of the blood. He felt a ripple run through the pool and into his skin. Ethan jerked back onto his heels, breathing hard and the world spinning around him. His vision whited out as pain shot through his arm.

Fear shot through his body, it triggered a heady rush of adrenaline. Images flashed through his mind, jerky and out of focus, everything filtered through the overwhelming sense of panic. Ethan could barely see in the sudden darkness, a flash of inky sky, an alley littered with trash, the solid black outline of a crouching—

He gasped and shuddered. There were hands grabbing at him, strong arms restraining him. He flailed and tried to fight his way free.

"Ellison!"

There was a voice shouting in his ear but it wasn't angry or homicidal. He came back to the present with a start and sagged back into Clanahan's chest, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

"Ellison! What—"

"Holy shit," Ethan panted. He reached out, grasping white knuckled at the knees framing his hips, his other hand reaching back and burying his fingers in Clanahan's hair.

"Ethan?"

"I'm okay. That was—I don't even know what that was."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never—I've never had that happen before."

"Had _what_ happen? What is going on here Ellison?"

Ethan's head rested against the other man's shoulder, it felt too heavy to hold up under the crushing weight of _memory._ He concentrated on the feel of Clanahan's voice rumbling through his body.

"I think I saw the killer."

"Could you see the face? Could you see enough for a sketch artist?"

He shook his head a little, really more of a lolling motion as he gazed up at the side of Clanahan's head.

"No, no, it was just a shadow, the outline of a figure. I couldn't—I think I, well I was seeing things from the—from Matilde's perspective. Oh god, she was so afraid, she was terrified." He laughed at the banality of his own comment. "Of course she was scared, christ, will you listen to me?"

A hand settled over his heart, holding him in place and all at once Ethan became aware of the fine tremors running through his body. He shivered, he was sweating through his clothes.

"I've never felt anything so strongly before."

"You're okay," Clanahan's voice was strangely soft in his ear, almost soothing.

Ethan flushed with embarrassment. He let his hand fall away from his partner's hair, carefully extracting himself from his solid embrace and stood on weak legs.

"Unfortunately, I don't think I got anything that was actually useful."

Clanahan peered up at him from the ground, thoughtful. "Could you track her movements back from here maybe?"

He shook his head. "I didn't get anything until I touched the blood. But I think—well, it looked like a monster. It definitely wasn't human."

"Great."

His partner looked less than thrilled by the news. Ethan watched him straighten up and knock the grit off his pants.

"What next?" he asked.

Clanahan growled a little, low in the back of his throat and started back to the car. "Next," he threw back over his shoulder, "we go talk to Aaron Maccabee."

Ethan frowned, rifling through his mental rolodex of paranormals. He froze when the name clicked. "The _alpha_? You want to just stroll into werewolf central and start demanding to see the _alpha_?"

"We're police officers and a murder occurred in their territory."

"Well yeah, true."

"Just keep your mouth shut if you're afraid."

"I didn't say I was afraid!" He protested and slid into the car. They sped away into traffic with a squeal of bald tires.

"Either way, maybe you should just keep your mouth shut and let me deal with the questions."

Ethan snorted. "Right, lupus a lupus." He rested his head against the cool glass of the car window and let the tangible irritation radiating from the driver's seat roll off him.

## **CHAPTER THREE**

##

Ethan was in trouble. He had the distinct impression that Aaron Maccabee would like nothing better than to leap across his monstrous desk and tear out Ethan's throat. With his teeth. Possibly, his _human_ teeth. That's if Clanahan didn't strangle him first. Or break his knee under the strain of his inhuman grip.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have made the 'yo mamma' joke, that had been unprofessional and immature. And he definitely should have stopped himself before he started in on the latin conjugations.

Right now the Maccabee alpha's eyes were locked on Ethan, cold and sharp, waiting for him to flinch. The man was easily pushing his mid-sixties but he barely looked a day past forty-five. He was six foot, broad shouldered and fit. A healthy tan colored his skin, hair still mostly dark and glossy, only the slightest hint of silver creeping in at his temples. His face and visible skin was unscarred but Ethan knew he had risen to his position in the pack several decades before and defended it several times over through force. This was not the sort of man you crossed without saying a prayer and making things right with your god beforehand.

Starring into intense brown eyes, the smart thing to do in this situation would be to look away. It was just common sense, one did not engage the leader of a wolf pack in a staring contest. If you were stupid enough to insult such a creature, the smart thing was to belly up and fast.

Ethan Ellison did not feel like being a smart man. He returned the glare blithely and grinned. He could practically feel the way Clanahan's whole body wound tighter, he was practically perched on the edge of his seat, ready to intervene or maybe join in when Maccabee finally snapped, Ethan couldn't tell either way.

"So you don't mind if we interview the rest of your pack? Confirm a few alibis? Pass around a picture of Miss Walker, see if anyone recognizes her?" Ethan felt a preternatural calm settle over his nerves. This was not how he'd intended to spend his Saturday and if he had to suffer, well, so could everyone else.

Maccabee was silent.

"Great, I'll take that as a yes. So, Pat, you got any questions? Or are we done here?" He glanced at his partner who wouldn't look at him so he turned back to the alpha. "For now, at least."

"You will do no such thing," the other werewolf growled. Ethan wondered morbidly if he was seeing things or if there was some actual fang action going on. "Any contact you wish to have with members of _my_ pack will go through me, is that perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly?"

"We're done here," Clanahan interrupted him, standing abruptly and jerking Ethan to his feet. He nodded stiffly to the alpha and started backing them out of the room, never quite turning away from the other wolf. He didn't let go once they were out of the room. Ethan could feel bruises springing up on his upper arm and no amount of shrugging successfully dislodged the other man's grip as he frog marched them out of the mansion.

"Will you let go? Seriously, I think this falls under abuse," Ethan resorted to whining. "Clanahan!"

"Shut up," he snarled.

"No! What the hell is this?" They had reached the Camaro, parked on the street. "Oh come on, don't tell me you couldn't tell he was nervous about something!"

"Of course I could! That doesn't give you leave to _antagonize_ a ruling member of the _blood clan_."

"Why not? That seems like the perfect reason to me!"

"Of course it would," the other detective muttered derisively.

"Seriously Clanahan, get your hands off me."

The werewolf glared at him but let go, throwing himself behind the wheel and starting the engine. Ethan scrambled to get inside before he got left behind.

"I think he knows something." Clanahan remained stubbornly quiet, silently fuming. Ethan pressed the issue. "Or at least he suspects something. And he definitely doesn't want us talking to his people. That's suspicious right?" No response. "Are you _blanking_ me right now? Very mature."

"He doesn't want us talking to his _pack members_ because it's inappropriate."

"'Inappropriate'? Are you—no, I'm sorry, who was it made a big deal about us being cops and this being a murder investigation? Oh that's right, it was you," Ethan sniped, crossing his arms defensively. "What, did the big bad alpha put the fear of fur in you?" He threw up a hand as they screeched to an abrupt halt, just barely keeping his face from becoming uncomfortably familiar with the cracked dashboard.

"This isn't going to work."

Ethan threw up his hands, "You couldn't have realized that three hours ago when we were in the Captain's office? Shit out of luck now, aren't we?" He heard Clanahan sigh heavily and turned away. He was starting to get used to starring out this passenger window, warped glass and all. They started moving again.

The thing was, Ethan knew he had been a shit in there. He'd known it while he was doing it, and he hadn't been able to stop or filter his mouth. He knew families like the Maccabees and what he imagined the McClanahan's must be like if his partner's behavior was anything to judge. They were old families with history. Families like his own, right down to the disapproving patriarch who relished nothing so much as controlling everyone else. Ethan hated just about everything about families like that. He'd escaped his as soon as he'd turned seventeen and finally been expelled from school for good.

He shivered beneath the thin cotton of his shirt even though a generous sun shone in the sky (generous for this time of year at least). Without warning the dash heater kicked on, blowing out a warm gust of air at him. Ethan glanced up at the passenger glass in a surreptitious attempt to study Clanahan. He could see the wolf staring fixedly out at traffic while he drove.

"ME should have a preliminary for us, unless you have any objections."

Ethan twitched and pressed his forehead into the warm glass.

"No, that's fine. I should take a look at the body myself anyways, before it can sit too long in cold storage." He felt the familiar twinge in his stomach as nerves sent his blood pumping faster through his body. "Blood, that is. Cooling does weird things to blood. The magic of it. It's hard to explain."

"Okay," Clanahan said neutrally and gunned the engine.

#

It was almost 11:30 AM by the time they made it downtown to the morgue. Seattle was a thriving metropolis, or maybe a boiling metropolis would be a better description Pat thought dryly. It came down to enough money and enough violent crime and homicides every year to warrant keeping a full time Medical Examiner on staff.

Doctor Janice Lynch began life as a tiny blonde haired Portland native with two older brothers. She'd spent the formative years of her childhood bandaging their scraped knees and poking dead animals with sticks before she'd eventually fallen into the death business almost by accident and stayed for the generous paycheck.

Pat found Jan inoffensive and competent if a little reserved and quiet. She always gave her reports in a soft, mellow voice, listing dry facts like she was a character on _Dragnet._ Since Adam's death she also hadn't been able to look him in the eye and Pat knew it had nothing to do with werewolf etiquette.

The morgue smelled like preservative, cold and underneath that the unmistakable thread of death and old blood. It wasn't his favorite place, all the different smells of bodies living and dead, layered on top of each other and never given an opportunity to dissipate. It always disoriented his senses a little at first.

He lead Ellison down to the basement level where they kept the coolers and Janice had her office. The other man was silent, following a half step behind Pat and to his right, steps ringing a little in the long, empty tiled hallway. His face looked pale under the fluorescent lights, expression drawn.

"Detective Clanahan, you're early." Janice stepped out of her office at the end of the hall and met them half way. Her eyes flicked over Ellison briefly before she gestured for Pat to follow her.

"Well, with the particularly violent nature of the death, I was hoping you'd bump us to the front of the line."

"You can't weigh death Detective," she murmured reproachfully. She pulled on a clean, disposable apron and a pair of gloves, offering the box of latex to the two men. Ellison took a pair but didn't put them on, just gripped them tightly and stared wide-eyed at the row of gleaming metal autopsy tables.

"First time?"

His partner startled. "No, it's just been awhile."

Janice hummed noncommittally, consulted a chart and opened one of the cold, temporary holding lockers. The body was covered in a sheet, soak through with blood in places. The ME drew the covering back, folding it down towards the victim's feet and stepping back to give them room.

"With remains like these, there's so much going on it's hard to pin down a specific COD but I can rule out asphyxiation and there's no obvious blunt force trauma to her head. Unless I find something contradictory, this one is going to get ruled exsanguination caused by extensive physical trauma," Janice quoted without having to refer to her notes. "License on the body identified our vic as Matilde Walker, fingerprints confirmed. White caucasian female, twenty-five years old, five foot three, one hundred and twenty pounds—I would estimate her weight at one hundred and ten now though."

"You can tell that?" Ellison interrupted. As Pat watched, he swallowed convulsively a few times, looking almost waxy.

Janice stared at him blankly. "Well, there was nothing missing from the body, other than her blood, so it wasn't really hard to crunch the numbers. And there's a few physical indicators that suggest recent weight loss. I thought it might be useful information."

"It's fine Jan." Her gaze snapped to him but then darted away.

"Both arms and her right leg were completely detached from the body. Preliminary examination of the bone looks like tooth marks to me but my intern will take photos and do a little computer modeling to confirm that. There's quite a bit of flesh damage over most of the body, again, looks like animal marks to me."

Pat felt a grim sort of certainty settling over his shoulders.

"A werewolf?"

"Maybe." She shrugged. "But it could be something else. A wendigo, for instance, could inflict very similar damage. Or a, a kitsune could probably do it too."

Ellison snorted. "Sasquatch is more likely."

Janice frowned. "There is no need to be snide, Detective."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a frustrated breath. "Look, would you mind giving us a minute Doctor?"

Janice waited for Pat to nod confirmation before she spun on her heel and glided soundless from the room.

"What was that all about?"

"You can't sense it?"

Pat shook his head, expression turning suspicious.

"She's like a fucking magical black hole."

"I'm sorry?" He could hear the disbelief in his own voice.

Ellison waved his hand around a little hysterically. "A dead zone. I don't know how else to explain it," he said crossing the room in half a dozen jerky steps.

Pat watched him closely, not sure whether he should expect a repeat performance like the one at the crime scene earlier or not but he wasn't looking forward to the other man taking a nose dive in the middle of the morgue.

Ellison's eyes fluttered closed and he lay a trembling hand on Matilde's cleaned skin. Pat's wolf squirmed both at the sight and the distress rolling off Ellison, the smell of sweat breaking out across his skin sickly with stress and the frantic uptick of his heartbeat in the otherwise silent room. The changes in the other man's body were all but a physical slap in the face, telegraphing his disquiet better than any number of words would have.

He sighed, his hand slid up the line of her torso feather light, just the tips of his fingers making contact. Pat's eyes were transfixed. Ellison withdrew and stared at the far wall for several long minutes, his blood rushing, his breathing turning erratic. Pat made his own body still, shifting until his chest almost pressed into the tense line of his partner's back. He tried to regulate his own breathing so that it was slow and steady in Ellison's ear.

"I think she knew her attacker."

Pat caught the quiet words over the roar of their bodies, he dialed his senses back to a more human level and waited.

"There's nothing...surprised about her." Ellison cocked his head, Pat's nose almost brushing the skin behind his ear, he couldn't remember moving in this close.

"We need a face, or a description," he whispered into the shell of the other man's ear, a little afraid of breaking the finely strung tension in the room. He could almost taste the magic crackling across Ellison's skin.

It didn't matter, the mage jerked away from him, his expression shuttered.

"I know that!" he said, his voice laced with frustration, "but there's nothing I can do. I can't—it's all a jumble, like falling down a fucking well and breaking every bone in your body and all I can feel is how much it _hurt_. She died cold and afraid and in excruciating pain."

He slipped past Pat and stumbled out of Autopsy. Janice came back in after him and gave Pat a questioning look. He cleared his throat.

"I think we're done for now. You'll get back to me about the marks on the bone?"

"Of course."

"Thanks. I'd better, uh—" he gestured over his shoulder and left.

He found Ellison waiting at the car, his body resting against the passenger door. Pat couldn't help but notice the tired slump to his shoulders, all the bravado from before seeming to have deserted him.

"You look like you're falling asleep on your feet." Ellison jerked upright. Pat narrowed his eyes at the other man and unlocked his door. "Have you even eaten anything today?"

The other man laughed derisively. "What do you think? This was supposed to be my day off but the Captain called me in at 7 AM, so that would be a no. I didn't even have time to get a cup of shit coffee from the station."

Pat felt a wash of guilt heat the back of his neck. He'd been so distracted by the other man's attitude—argumentative, a little abrasive and definitely too sarcastic for his own good—he hadn't stopped to actually look at him. It wasn't how you treated the guy watching your back, even if you hadn't asked for him to be there.

"You should—look, why don't I drop you off at your place. You can catch a few hours of sleep, eat, I'll go see about running down CSU's reports and pick you up later this afternoon."

Ellison blinked at him a little myopically, opening and closing his mouth. It wasn't a particularly attractive look.

"That would be," he started then stopped, coughed. "Okay." He gave Pat directions in a quiet, distracted voice. When they pulled up outside his building he turned in his seat, glanced over at Pat with a calculating look.

"Thanks."

Then he disappeared into the older, red brick walk-up. Pat sighed and turned the Camaro back towards the station.

#

As soon as he made it through the front door, Ethan let his body sag. He felt drained, emotionally, physically, all of it. He still hadn't managed to pick up his car from overnight parking but he was too tired to think about how much it was probably costing him.

He'd worked on less sleep before but the emotional bombardment had broadsided him; he hadn't been expecting to get anything, and what he had sensed had been exhausting.

Now, despite himself, he felt a great swell of gratitude to the short-tempered Clanahan. This might just be a ploy to get him out of the way, dressed up in a kind deed, but he'd take it.

Ethan lived in an old brick and mortar apartment in Fremont, just northwest of the precinct. The house was more than seventy-five years old and the wiring was a bit iffy, but the plumbing had all been redone in the early 2000's to entice graduate student renters. There were two apartments on each of the first three floors and an open loft style penthouse on the fourth floor which a local artist had purchased outright before Ethan moved in, and gutted, turning the entire space into a workshop.

Slow and stumbling, he dragged his ass across the ground floor lobby and up three flights of creaking steps to his apartment. The building was quiet for a Saturday, even though it was the middle of the day. Usually someone could be heard playing retro music or enjoying the free time to fuck or stumbling home hungover before noon. He was the oldest renter in residence but he didn't mind too much, his neighbors were interesting and refreshingly academic—a pleasant change from the guys down at the station and the ones he met on the street.

He fumbled his keys out of the pocket of his frayed jeans, the ones from his locker and he'd have to remember to grab another set of spare clothes to take back into the office, and jimmied open the door to 3B. The floorboards in the hall were loud and uneven—he liked it, you could always hear someone else coming—but the door hinges were well oiled—so that no one could hear him coming.

To be fair, he was a little distracted by thoughts of the case, the aftershocks of emotional transference from the morgue, and fading quickly—all his energy running out of him like water. Later, he'd blame this same preoccupation for how the intruder in his home caught him off guard.

## **CHAPTER FOUR**

##

"Hello darling."

"Jesus fu—" Ethan reached for the sidearm he wasn't carrying and when his hands encountered nothing but air at his side, turned to grab the nearest heavy object instead. That's how he ended up facing off against the amused expression of his ex-lover Christophe Granger with nothing in his hands except a—

"Are you really brandishing a tiny garden gnome at me? I know we haven't talked in awhile, I'll even own up that that might be my own fault, but a garden gnome? That's creepy."

"What the hell are you doing in my apartment?" Ethan was fully aware he had to look ridiculous but there was little he could do about it at this point so he might as well commit to the image of a pasty figurine wielding crazy-person. "How the hell did you get _into_ my apartment? There are locks."

Christophe grinned softly. "Not very good ones."

"There are alarms."

"Again—"

"There are _charms!_ "

"Oh babe, you don't really think those... 'charms' of yours could keep me out do you? If anything—"

"No! Don't even." Ethan finally let his arm drop. He felt his heart beating from the fresh adrenaline rush. "We are not." If only he could get his damn mouth under control. "Answer my first question, what are you doing here," he put as much authority into his voice as he could scrounge together.

The grin on Christophe's face widened until he showed a little teeth. "Look at you, give me another order in that voice will you?"

Ethan gritted his teeth and stalked up to him, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him close. "Now is not a good time for—for _you_ Chris. For this shit."

Christophe's expression was difficult to read, his entire existence was difficult to read for Ethan, that had always been part of the problem, but he looked sincere when he leaned forward and cupped the back of Ethan's head in his hands. He ran his thumb across Ethan's cheekbone, cool grey eyes running over the planes of his face.

"You look like shit darling, I take it back, I'm not convinced this place agrees with you at all."

Ethan jerked back like he'd been slapped but it didn't do much to dislodge the other man's grip. He glared quietly into Christophe's serene expression; it was easy, natural, they were almost the same height—easily on a level with each other, just like they had been almost their entire lives.

His thumb stroked across his skin and he reeled Ethan in close again, leaning close and pressing a soft kiss to first one eye and then the other as Ethan closed them. He didn't break right away, desperately trying to hold onto the shock he'd sublimated into irritation but Christophe was difficult to ignore and Ethan was reminded all over again how tired he felt.

"Thanks, that's exactly the sort of thing I love to hear." Soft lips traced where he was starting to get crows feet in the corners of his eyes, his temple, trailing down to the edge of his mouth. Christophe nipped flirtatiously at his bottom lip and Ethan could feel him practically grinning against his skin.

Ethan relaxed where his hands were still fisted in the front of his ex's shirt, smoothing the fabric out beneath his palms and possibly copping a feel while he was at it. Christophe had filled out in the eight years they'd been apart, finally growing into the sharp line of his shoulders and his cheekbones, looking less like a starving model and more like a successful professional.

Ethan wasn't going to admit that he might have googled Christophe from time to time. He hadn't needed to, news about a big Toronto area witches civil lawsuit his friend sat council on back in 2008 had been all over the papers, even in the States, and he'd felt a tiny frisson of pride at the news. Christophe had always been the more ambitious of the two of them, studying hard and partying harder. Better at charming his way past assholes and up the social ladder, and in and out of Ethan's heart.

Now he was back. Only this time he was taking up space in Ethan's living room, breathing Ethan's air and touching Ethan like he was actually glad to see him instead of the other way around.

Christophe sniffed delicately at his neck above the collar of his shirt, running the tip of his nose across his skin, it made Ethan shiver in spite of his reservation. "What is that?"

"Morgue," Ethan replied dryly.

The other man pulled back. "Are you being serious?"

"Unfortunately."

"What on earth were you doing at a morgue on a Saturday? I was hoping to find you here all snug in your bed, I can't tell you how disappointed I was to be wrong."

Ethan huffed a small breath and let one hand slide across Christophe's chest, enjoying the warmth radiating through the thin cotton of his button down. "I got called into work."

"But you're home now?"

"Just for a couple hours. My partner told me to sleep. It—it hasn't been a good morning."

Christophe leaned back and held his eyes, his fingers stroked firmly down Ethan's neck and dug in. He seemed to have a sixth sense for the tension gathered in the muscles there, massaging firmly. Ethan melted even further into the touch, he groaned softly.

"Poor thing." Christophe leaned in and kissed the tip of Ethan's nose, then murmured into his ear, "I wouldn't dream of keeping you from your rest. Come along, I'll even tuck you in." He took Ethan by the hand and led him firmly back through the still apartment.

Light from the east wall was shuttered, making all the wood floors, the bare walls, glow a little. His bedroom was tucked in the back of the flat, at the end of a short hallway lined by windows overlooking the street. It was easily the largest room and dominated by his comfortable bed.

Ethan sank into the mattress, the sheets a still mess from how he'd left them over thirty-six hours ago. He toed off his converse and wiggled out of his jeans, letting Christophe pull his T-shirt off over his head and fling it blindly at the dirty laundry pile in front of his dresser.

"You still never answered my question," Ethan muttered, letting himself be pushed back into the bedding.

Christophe climbed up on top of him, braced on his hands. He sat back against Ethan's lap, the fabric of his slacks pulling tights across his thighs. He grinned.

"And you aren't going to." Ethan rolled his eyes. Christophe thrust down, pushing their cocks together his trousers and Ethan's tight boxers. Ethan sighed into it, let his head fall back onto his pillow. Nothing had changed, it was still easier to just let Chris drive and enjoy the ride while it lasted.

Christophe leaned down and kissed him deep and wet. It was a familiar kiss, it said, "hello, I know you," and set the blood pumping through Ethan's strung out body. He raked his fingers through short, fine dark hair, missing the old familiar feeling of crunchy hair gel when Christophe used to wear it longer on top and styled. He groaned around the tongue in his mouth, breathing hard when they parted.

"Now are you glad to see me?"

Ethan snorted, scritching across his scalp and enjoying the way it made the other man shiver against his body, grinding them together where he could feel Christophe hard against his inner thigh. His own cock was starting to take serious interest in the situation.

"No," he murmured, then laughed as Christophe pulled back to glare at him.

"Liar." He snaked a hand down between their bodies and gripped Ethan through his boxer briefs, stroking firm and slow just once and letting go. Ethan groaned and arched into the touch.

"Fuck."

"Mm, maybe later." Chris smirked down at him and hooked his fingers under his underwear, dragging it down and off his legs, flinging it away from the bed like it had personally offended him.

Ethan laughed a little, "Pretty sure of yourself there."

"Of course." He scooted back down towards the foot of the bed, dropping ticklish kisses along Ethan's ribs as he went. Christophe settled between his knees, pushing his legs up and apart so that he had room to nose at the crease where thigh met torso. He licked and nipped at tender skin, but avoided where Ethan wanted him most, his hands pushing him firmly inexorably back into the bed.

He looked up and gave Ethan a significant look, "Will you just lie back and let me work? I forgot what a pain in the ass you were, darling."

"I think we both know I'm not the actual pain in the a—" Ethan yelped at the feeling of soft, wet heat enveloped his cock. "Oh, oh fuck!" He pried his eyes open and looked down the heaving line of his chest and belly to where Christophe had taken more than half his cock into his mouth, amused grey eyes watching Ethan's reaction.

He fisted his hands in his sheets, trying not to jerk his hips too much. Chris swirled his tongue around the shaft, bobbing his head and taking another inch into his mouth until Ethan felt the head of his cock bump up against the back of his throat. He whined piteously and twisted under his hands. He was almost painfully aroused, the heat in his belly leaving him light-headed and out of control. He felt his orgasm building embarrassingly fast, like going from idle to sixty in three point six seconds.

Christophe didn't let up, just kept working his mouth up and down the length of his dick, soft lips stretch wide and leaving the skin shiny and wet. He pushed down hard on Ethan's hips, pressing fresh bruises into the skin and swallowed around the head, driving Ethan over the edge. He came with a shout and a jerk, shooting his load down the other man's throat. He swallowed, tongue milking the orgasm out of him for a long drawn out minute until Ethan was nothing but a shivering mess.

He pulled off with a slick pop, a trail of spit and come connecting them for an instant before Christophe licked his lips and grinned wolfishly.

Ethan gulped in air, he felt more like he'd been hit by a Mack truck than come, pleasure lighting up all his nerve endings; even his hair felt tingly. Not even Christophe's obvious self-satisfaction could dim the endorphin rush. He blinked lethargically, enjoying the afterglow as Christophe worked his down comforter out from under him, drawing it up over his body against the cool air.

"Wait, you didn't—"

Christophe leaned down and pressed a chaste, closed mouth kiss against Ethan's lips, silencing him.

"You can pay me back later."

Ethan ran his hand over the back of his head and down across his face, pushing Christophe and his stupid grin away from him, smiling dopily up at the ceiling.

"Yeah okay."

He rolled into the warmth of the blankets, wearily tugging a pillow into his chest and curling onto his side. "Don't let me sleep too late."

"Of course not darling, now go the fuck to sleep."

#

This was what Pat knew: his vic's name, the color of her hair and eyes, her height, her weight, where she had died, where she had lived, and where she used to worked. All of this though, told him very little about Matilde Walker. That Ellison was convinced she had known her attacker was a place to start, that Janice said all signs pointed to some kind of monster attack, sort of narrowed the field.

As with all homicides, Pat felt like he was racing against the clock. There was a small window of opportunity where the case was still fresh, before the blood dried, and he knew after that window closed the probability of catching his murderer dropped exponentially.

CSU had sent Matilde's personal information to his work email and he pulled her apartment address up on his phone. It wasn't too far away from where he'd dropped off Ellison. He took an illegal u-turn across a quiet street, slamming on his brakes before he could accidentally hit a couple hipsters j-walking and glared at them through his windshield.

Matilde had lived in trendy block of apartments all painted in bright, primary greens, yellows, brick reds, and ocean blues. He flashed his badge at the super and skipped the elevator. Her flat was cozy, one bedroom and a tiny kitchen nook, the furniture mostly stuff you would buy from Ikea. Her bedroom was light and airy, a full size bed taking up all the available space. A map of Europe and a collection of postcards dominated one wall, and gauzy white curtains fluttered in a light breeze—her balcony door was ajar.

Records showed she had lived alone, a University of Washington transplant who had stuck around after graduation. She'd earned a B.A. in Business Administration with a minor in small animal husbandry. She worked for PetChIp, a tech company specializing in upscale pet GPS hardware, and had been found with an electronic keycard for the front door of a local vet's office on her person.

There was an old fashioned calendar in her kitchen, full of glossy pictures of dogs running through fields, leaping, fetching, and panting into the camera lens.

Pat's nose twitched, picking up the faint trace of dander. It was obvious Matilde had liked animals but so far he hadn't seen any signs that she owned one herself. He breathed deeply, trying to pinpoint the source, but it was weak and there were no accompanying smells of pet food or pet feces that one usually encountered in even the cleanest pet residences.

His nose led him back into the small living room, the scent stopped at the couch. It was fairly small, dark blue cloth and no obvious signs of pet hair. Curious, he ran his hand across the back, sniffed his fingers—nothing. But the lingering scent was definitely centered around this one place in the apartment. Pat got down on his knees and peered under the couch. Surprised, he pulled out half a dozen fabric animal collars, all of them smelling like dog. He could even detect the faintest differences between the collars now that he held them up to his face.

Pat checked under the rest of the couch, pulled off the pillows and cushions, ran his hand between the seams in the bottom, but there was nothing else hiding there. He pulled a few evidence baggies out of his inside jacket pocket and separated out the collars, noting that several them had name tags: _Stephanie_ , _Killer_ , and _Frodo_.

He rechecked the kitchen cabinets to make sure he hadn't missed any old pet supplies hiding behind water pipes or her Windex but there was nothing. No old beds or toys in the hall closet either.

Confused more than anything else, Pat gathered up her laptop (there was no sign of a cellphone anywhere in the apartment) and address book, both of which got bagged and tagged, then closed up shop. He locked her front door and stuck yellow evidence tape across the threshold, and legged it back downstairs.

Next he drove downtown to where PetChIp had a small local office. He parked in a loading zone out front of the building and checked the time on his phone. He'd lost about an hour between driving and looking through the apartment. Too soon to bother Ellison.

The GPS company consisted of a small suite of offices, a larger open plan cubicle hive in the front and two smaller offices in the back, presumably for management. The hardware itself was made in a manufacturing plant up in Bothell but sales and customer service were both handled by a small pool of guys on computers answering phones.

Glenn Derriger was looking drawn and peaky when Pat introduced himself. He kept running a hand across the smooth dark skin of his bald head and frowning; he led Pat into his office, sitting and standing again almost immediately.

"I'm sorry, is there anything I can get you? Coffee, water?" Derriger took a deep shuddering breath and sat again.

"No, thank you." Pat watched him closely. "Someone from the station called the office to tell you I was coming right?"

The other man nodded and looked up with a surprisingly lost expression.

"There was an article in the Times. There weren't a whole lot of details and the picture just showed a bunch of squad cars but—it didn't sound good. And then the call this morning. I just—was it bad?"

"I can't release details of an ongoing investigation."

"But you're investigating so this wasn't an accident right?"

Pat hesitated. "It's unlikely." He couldn't tell if Derriger found this news comforting or not. His scent was chaotic, overlaying the sharp spike of stress and sweat. But this could as easily be attributed to learning one of your employees had been murdered, as it could to guilt. "It's standard procedure to treat all deaths as potential homicides until we can prove otherwise, but yes, the details of Miss Walker's case point rather strongly towards murder. Now I was hoping you could help me."

"How?"

"Well, let's start with how long have you known Miss Walker?"

"Uh, three years? She interned with our company during her last year of college, then we picked her up after graduation. She was in sales originally but the past year she's been helping out with the more technical support. We've seen a bit of turnover and she wanted to be able to help train new people, I think."

"Tech support?"

"Signal checks, providing technical instructions and troubleshooting the chips, uh, looking for lost pets, that kind of thing. Don't let the size of this office fool you; we're actually the number one producer and distributor of animal GPS chips in the Pacific Northwest."

"Right. Did she get along with the other people in this office?"

Derriger nodded glumly, "She was nice, good at helping people and she loved animals so our customers liked her too."

Pat hated when people used "nice" to describe someone else, it usually meant they were either lying or, less often, believed it was actually true, which made his job about five times more complicated. The enemies of "nice" people were always the most annoying to ferret out.

"Right, everyone loved her," Pat wasn't sure if he'd kept his tone there as neutral as he'd intended.

Derriger frowned at him. "I know how it sounds, like I'm some stupid TV character reciting pat lines but it's the truth. Matilde was a good employee and as far as I can tell you, a decent person. I was her boss, not her best friend, but I will say I've always been glad I hired her."

It wasn't in his instincts to look away from eye-to-eye contact first but Pat tried to soften his expression in the face of Derriger's obvious distress.

"I didn't mean to imply that you were lying. I want to find out what happened to Miss Walker and the easiest way for me to do that is with as much specific information as you and the people who knew her can give me."

"The devil's in the details?" Derriger's smile wavered.

Pat snorted. His gut told him that the guy was a decent boss and Derriger's heart kept beating a steady rhythm; there wasn't anything to suggest he __ was lying.

"You'd be surprised just how true that is."

"Fair enough. I can't see how this is work related. We just chip family pets, there's nothing more sinister about it, and as far as her work went, Matilde hadn't been assigned any special projects. I don't know how else I can help you."

"Can I see her work station?"

"Of course." He ushered Pat back into the main cubicle hive and introduced him to Niall Anderson, a thin, weedy looking young man with riotous sandy blond hair and big blue eyes that only looked larger behind the lenses of his ugly hipster glasses.

"So it's true? She's—" he swallowed around the words, "she's dead?"

Pat nodded, watching the way Anderson's eyes darted to the floor, the way he scrubbed both hands across his face, his shoulders hunched.

"You worked with her?"

"Not really with—well, we started about the same time and we've had adjacent cubicles since she was hired on."

"Your manager, Mr. Derriger, he said she wasn't working on anything special. Is that true?"

Anderson jerked and looked up at him with a startled expression. "Do you think she died be—because of _work_?"

Pat shrugged. "It's my job to look into any and all possibilities." More than anything, the other man smelled like confusion and a little fear. Pat decided to press. "So, any special projects? Maybe something unapproved?"

"What? No, of course not." He shook his head jerkily, then froze. "Do you think she was killed by one of our customers?"

Pat sighed internally, he was getting no where. These people didn't know anything, and now Anderson was just filling his head full of ridiculous notions. At this rate, he'd start jumping every time one of their phones rang with a worried mother trying to find the family rabbit.

"Have you had any angry or disgruntled customers recently?"

Niall shook his head and Pat had to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Then probably not." He turned to go then remembered the vet key, stopped. "Wait, two more things, do you know why Miss Walker has access to Happy Paws Vet Clinic?"

"She worked there sometimes, mostly on the weekends I think. She always wanted to be a vet growing up."

Made sense.

"Okay. Last thing, did she have any pets?"

"Uh, no?"

"I was asking you."

"Well, I don't think so. I've never been to her place but she's never mentioned any pets. Or, well, not ones that didn't belong to a customer." Anderson winced apologetically.

"Right. Here, this is my card, it's got my cell number and a number for the station, if you think of anything—anything she might have said about being afraid or worried, or if you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her—don't hesitate to call."

Anderson took the business card and stared at it. He had to swallow a couple times before he spoke, "How did she die?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential information."

The younger man sniffed alarmingly and Pat made his excuses, darting into Matilde's cubicle. It was pretty bare, just her office computer and a phone, a pin board covered in pictures of historical architecture; he recognized a wrinkled magazine cutout of St. George Basilica and another postcard featuring the Peace Palace in the Hague. Idly he unpinned the postcard and flipped it over: it was blank and the card stock was crisp and unbent, it had never been mailed.

He looked through her three desk drawers. They held in descending order: pencils, pens and sticky notes, then company magazines and brochures, and the bottom drawer was locked. Pat glanced around surreptitiously but Anderson was back at his desk, hunched over his keyboard and staring into space, Derriger had disappeared into his office and the only other employee present was sequestered at the other side of the office.

It was tricky, but locked or no, he was fairly sure he could get away with jimmying the drawer open without a warrant. He plucked a stray paperclip off Matilde's desk and had the cheap lock cracked in less than thirty seconds. The drawer was empty, completely wiped cleaned. Pat frowned, running his hand along the bottom, his fingers came away with the faint smell of astringent lemon anti-bacterial cleanser.

The drawer jammed when he tried to pull it open all the way, stuck an inch into the recesses of the desk. Interest piqued, Pat slid to the floor and pulled harder at the drawer. It didn't budge. So he lifted it out of it's rickety track and pulled it free, wheels and all. The metal was bulky and he banged it loudly against the side of the desk trying to get it out but finally it was free.

He glanced into the black hole and made a quiet noise of surprise when he saw a shiny, rectangle there under the desk. He reached down and extracted a cellphone. The battery was dead but there was a good chance this was Matilde's absentee phone so he slipped it into an evidence bag and made a mental note to drop it off with IT. Next he flipped over the empty drawer and there, stuck to the bottom with a dozen layers of scotch tape, was a key.

"Good Lord, what is this, _Three Days of the Condor_?" Pat heard Darriger's office door open and he quickly peeled off the key and fit the drawer back in the desk, shutting it just as the other man appeared over his shoulder.

"Detective?"

Pat stood gracefully, he palmed the key and offered a business card with the other.

"I'm done for now but I'd appreciate if you kept this space intact for a little while longer, I might need to come back. Call me if you think of anything that might help with the case."

"Of course." He took the card and shook Pat's hand.

He checked the time on his phone, fiddling with the key in his pocket—it was lumpy and scratchy, still covered in layers of tape. It was an instinctive habit to pick at the edges. He sat in the Camaro and considered what he had to do next. He had a dead girl everyone liked, an office with sad co-workers who professed shock and cluelessness, a dead phone and a mysterious key. If he'd been prone to them, Pat was pretty sure this would have been the moment for an encroaching headache to start up right behind his eyes.

The driver's side window was cracked and he enjoyed the smell of fresh air breezing into his car, the way the sun had burned off the early morning cloud cover and now warmed the left side of his face.

He pulled the key out of his pocket and gave it a closer examination. It was larger than the sort of key you got at a train locker, gold with a round head and the numbers scratched out until they were recognizable on the head. He held it up in the light but no matter how hard he stared the scratches refused to coalesce into a legible number combination.

"Wonderful."

It was two hours since he'd dropped off his partner at home. Pat picked up his phone and texted Ellison for a personal sitrep.

#

Ethan jerked awake feeling disoriented. Naps were always like a wolf in sheep's clothing; even when your body desperately needed the rest, you inevitably woke up feeling worse than when you had closed your eyes. Now, he clawed his way through a sea of white cotton and fluffy down and pillows—honestly, he couldn't remember buying so many pillows, where had they all come from?

He couldn't exactly say what had woken him. There was the faintest noise from the other end of the apartment—memory slammed back into him, the naked slide of his skin against the sheets finally registering. He was still naked and feeling a little itchy from the blowjob.

"Christ, what is my life," he whined softly to himself. His phone vibrated angrily on the bedroom floor where it had fallen out of his clothes. Ethan slid off the mattress, still tangled in a sheet and taking half the bedding with him. He toggled his phone on and paled.

His head was throbbing from what the clock told him had been more than a quick hour nap at lunchtime, and his mouth felt dry and gross. There were thirteen new text messages, four missed calls and three voicemail notifications. The time said 4:59 PM.

"Shit."

The texts started out as run of the mill status updates and questions concerning when he wanted to be picked up. After they stopped, the phone calls started. He dialed his voicemail and listened to the latest message, wincing at the low, growling rumble of Clanahan's voice in his ear telling him to get his ass outside _right this minute_.

Ethan stumbled to his feet and all but fell into his tiny shower. Five minutes later he tripped back into the bedroom, furiously scrubbing water off his chest and legs, flipping through his closet looking for clean clothes. He was in luck, there was still an untouched dry cleaning bag hanging amongst his collection of boring white button downs. He changed into the smoke grey suit, a clean—if somewhat wrinkled—shirt, and dark socks.

There was a dark blue tie with a sharp, silver diamond pattern discarded on the floor, Ethan grabbed it, frowned, tossed it around his neck anyways. He was almost one hundred percent certain this particular tie did not belong to him but he also couldn't quite put a face to it's probable owner either.

The noise from the living room was the low drone of his flat screen television—one of his few technological indulgences—flickering in a shaft of sunlight. Christophe sprawled across the canvass day bed, his eyes low and drooping.

"I told you not to let me sleep."

"You said not to let you sleep _too late_ , actually." He twisted and pulled a sleek white iphone out of his pocket. "It's barely afternoon darling."

Ethan ground his teeth but said nothing, casting about for a pair of dress shoes. There was one in the front hall but its mate was no where to be seen.

"Shit, shit, move your legs," he snapped pushing Christophe's feet out of the way and sticking an arm under the couch. He withdrew it triumphantly and struggled into his black dress shoes.

"Well don't you look sharp. Hot date?" Christophe's voice was soft and flirtatious though his eyes were cool where they raked across Ethan's body. He shivered under the look.

"Fuck off. My new Anger-Management Issues partner is sitting outside probably daydreaming about tearing out my throat or eating my liver."

Christophe blinked. "That's awfully ... cannibalistic of him?"

Ethan snorted, "I'm exaggerating, obviously." Paused, finished tying his shoes and frowned. "I _think_ I'm exaggerating at least." His phone went off again and he winced even as he answered it.

"Where are you?" Clanahan sounded shockingly calm.

"On my way down. I'm sorry, I fell asleep and forgot to set an alarm."

Instead of answering there was a soft huff of air and the line went dead.

"Clanahan? Hello?" Ethan rolled his eyes when he pulled the phone away from his ear and saw that it had been disconnected.

Christophe was smirking at him from over the back of the lounger.

Ethan wrinkled his nose and pointed emphatically, trying to sound adamant, "I want you gone by the time I get back."

Christophe's expression shifted, his smile growing wider in amusement. "Your mouth is telling me one thing but—"

"I'm serious Chris." Ethan grabbed his wallet and keys and slammed the door on the other man's laughter, racing down the stairs. Outside the sun was slowly sinking towards dusk, the warmth from the day beginning to bleed away and he was glad for the suit coat.

Clanahan and his car were idly at the corner. Ethan ran up to the passenger's wide window and knocked on the glass before slipping inside, feeling a little breathless and flushed.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I know what I said, how I acted, but I don't want you to think that I'm not going to take this case seriously—"

"Save it. I told you to sleep so you did, let's just leave it at that. But from here on out, you make sure you're available, and you answer your god damn phone. Do we understand each other?"

Ethan frowned and studied the other man's profile. He was tense, mouth a pale, compressed line against the blank canvas of his face. Without even trying to get a reading off the guy, Ethan knew that he was upset. Obviously he was upset but it wasn't generalized irritation caused by Ethan existing and breathing air and purposefully making Clanahan's life harder (which he wasn't trying to do, just for the record).

In fact, there was something about this feeling, this sharp hard-edged feeling tickling his extra sensory perceptions that whispered, _it isn't you, this isn't about you, this is—_

The car engine roared into gear and they peeled away from the shoulder.

One eye on his partner, one eye on his phone, Ethan scrolled through the messages on his phone, making note of the time stamps and the shift in tone, how they went from perfunctory but informative to terse and almost—worried? He closed SMS and leaned back in the Camaro's bucket seats, mentally snorting at his own fanciful imagination; yeah right, Clanahan, worried.

"So where are we going?" Ethan ventured after several minutes of the silent treatment.

"Back to the station. I found the vic's laptop and phone, we need to get them to IT so they can get into the info drives for us. And we need to pull up information on Happy Paws Vet Clinic."

Ethan blinked. "Why?"

"She volunteered there."

"Do you think someone murdered her for, what, being mean to Fluffy?" Ethan honestly couldn't tell how much of this was Clanahan's natural inability to successfully communicate information, and how much of it was him being a dick. He felt groggy and confused.

Clanahan sighed loudly, "No, of course not. I mean, it's possible but, no, no that is not what I'm thinking, Christ."

"Right, because that would be stupid," Ethan muttered. He yawned; it made him pause. "You were on scene last night."

Pat grunted.

"And you were in the Captain's office before me this morning. When was the last time _you_ slept?"

Clanahan shrugged dismissively.

"What does that mean?"

"It means—it means I can't remember."

Ethan shifted around in his seat, demanding attention, which might not have been the smartest thing to demand from the guy currently in charge of driving but whatever, he was on a roll here. "No wonder you're being such a contrary bitch. It makes so much sense now."

Clanahan twitched and shot him a dark look.

"Don't look at me like that. I may have acted like a sarcastic asshole this morning but you have definitely been the bitchy one in this situation."

"Could you be more juvenile?" Ethan opened his mouth to respond but Clanahan interrupted him, "It doesn't matter anyways, I can function perfectly fine on far less sleep than you can." He sniffed a little. "Especially when I actually rest when I have the opportunity to, instead of screwing everything that moves."

Ethan felt his entire body flush, anger and embarrassment prickling his skin. Against his will, his cheeks lit up red to the roots of his hair. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I think it was pretty clear."

"Well I'd like you to explain yourself. Look, I get that that you have problems with me professionally but you better take a moment and consider if you really want to open a can of worms about my personal life." He could practically hear Clanahan rolling his eyes from the other side of the car. "I'm dead serious Clanahan, where do you get off?"

"We have to work together."

"Yeah, key word there being 'work,' I'm not inviting you up for a cup of tea and a threesome."

Clanahan's head jerked in his direction.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we aren't friends, and I couldn't care less what you think about how I live my life."

"Maybe not but I am your partner."

"Bullshit! Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car I'm getting out, I don't have to put up with this. I don't need you sitting there, what, judging me. What are you, a disapproving housewife?"

"Don't be dramatic." Clanahan was frowning.

"Dramatic? Are you going to tell me to stop having hysterics next? Tell me something, you always treat your _partners_ like this?"

Ethan could feel the snide dripping off his every word and savored the taste. He hoped it struck a nerve, Clanahan deserved it. The other man flinched and braked sharply at a red light. Ethan was thrown against his seatbelt. They were both breathing a little harder, full of righteous indignation at the other. The light turned green.

## **CHAPTER FIVE**

##

Janice Lynch was waiting for them back at the station. She'd changed out of her lab coat and scrubs, no sign of blood or gore anywhere on her trim pinstripe suit. Her hair was tied back in a rubberband, smooth and shiny blond, sensible shoes on her feat and a manila folder in one hand. She'd taken the empty rolling chair nearest to Clanahan's desk.

"Doc," Ethan greeted her in a tone as neutral as he could muster.

She glanced between them, settled on Clanahan, but Ethan noticed the way she seemed to look at either his shoulder or just above it, never quite looking him in the face.

"Report?" Clanahan took the folder she passed him and flipped through the first couple pages. "Anything come up?"

The medical examiner shifted in her chair and leaned back. It was a surprisingly relaxed pose. Clanahan sat behind his desk. This left Ethan hovering awkwardly to one side. He wasn't sure how to respond to Lynch's casual invasion of his partner's space, he hadn't thought they were friends from the awkward body language, the careful avoidances. Now here she was, taking up what Ethan felt pretty certain was Clanahan's old partner's desk—he shook his head, they were discussing the case.

"I know I told you it looked like an animal, or a monster, attack."

"But?"

Lynch grimaced, wrinkling her petite, Aryan nose. "It has every earmark of being just that but there's something off about the marks on the body. I found fingerprint bruises for one thing, and the 'claw marks' for lack of a better word, weren't actually made by claws."

"Okay..."

"I had my assistant run them against everything in our database but they don't quite match anything we have on file. Neither human nor..."

"Werewolf?" Ethan spoke into the pause she'd left hanging. "That is what everyone's thinking here, isn't it?"

Clanahan stared at the scuffed wood under his hands, fiddled idly with a ballpoint pen. Asked, "Are we?"

Lynch coughed delicately, "Well either way, I'm afraid you're on your own for this one. I'll keep working on it but right now we're looking at something I've never seen before. The tears and breaks were definitely made by something stronger than your average human but the bite marks look like a mix between human and lupine teeth."

Ethan grimaced.

"I still say a wendigo looks not improbable."

"Wendigos hate cities though," he argued, "and have you ever heard of one getting this far northwest? There's no precedent."

Clanahan interrupted, "Was there any flesh missing?"

"Well, no, so there is that."

"Basically you don't know what killed her and you can't figure it out from the body. That's wonderful." Clanahan shot him a quelling look, he went so far as to snag the sleeve of Ethan's suit coat in one hand before he could cross his arms defensively.

"Thanks Janice. Let us know if you uncover anything else." Clanahan gave her a strained smile, little more than a twitch of his lips.

Ethan couldn't tear his eyes away from her retreating back. His teeth ached in his skull, electricity in his mouth and burnt sugar on the back of his throat.

"You know, she really isn't that bad."

He tried rolling the tension out of his shoulder, breaking Clanahan's grip on his clothes, "That's what you think. I've never felt anything like it before."

"Yeah, well, don't let it distract you from what's actually important."

"Oh? Tell me something Clanahan, what would that be? The fact that we've managed to recover almost nothing useful from either the body or the crime scene?" Ethan kicked the empty desk chair, watching it spin away across the squad floor. The room was quiet, just a handful of detectives murmuring quietly over their desks or catching a bite of dinner during the shift change.

Clanahan sat back in his own chair and stared up at Ethan, unblinking. Ethan narrowed his eyes and hitched himself up on the edge of the other man's desk, forcing him to roll back a little to make room for another set of legs.

"This is much worse, human marks and monster marks? Awesome."

His partner shrugged a little.

"If you have a thought in that head of yours now might be time to share with the class."

"I'm as puzzled as you."

Ethan scrunched up his face, frustrated. "Maybe a disgruntled customer really did kill her and then sicced Lassie on the body."

Clanahan looked unamused, his voice dry, "Did you sense Lassie at the scene?"

He had a point. Ethan hadn't seen anything to suggest a common house pet or a human for that matter.

His eyes slipped shut, his mind slipping back into the memory from the crime scene. All he could remember were shadows, horrors in the dark, the low rumble of a bloodthirsty growl shivering across his skin. He was Matilde Walker, soft brown hair brushing against his face, shivering in her light jacket and regretting her decision to wear ballet flats and a skirt. He was afraid and resigned, realizing that there was no running away from—

"Ethan?"

Rough fingertips just barely ghosted across his cheek. Ethan shivered and his eyes snapped open, he shuddered back into his body abruptly.

"What was that?" Clanahan almost whispered. He looked wide eyed and almost nervous.

Ethan ran a nervous tongue over suddenly dry lips, "I—" he swallowed convulsively and stood up from the desk, right into Clanahan(Patrick)'s space. "Fuck, that was strange." Fingers reached out and wrapped around his shaking wrist, fingers warm and tight against his skin. Ethan laughed shakily, briefly twisted his hand and ran the tips of his fingers across Clanahan's thudding pulse before he pulled free.

"I'm fine, just got lost in thought. Come on, we need the tech guys downstairs to unlock her phone."

Clanahan shook himself. "Right," he murmured, flexing his fingers a couple times and standing.

The stations IT department was tiny. Literally three guys sharing a single desk in the first sub-basement, tucked into the corner of CSU. Only one of the tech gurus was on shift for the weekend, a curvy dark-haired woman named Lauren Beck. She gave both of them a sharp, appraising once over before making "gimme gimme" hands at Clanahan. He gladly signed over Matilde's laptop and phone.

"You're in luck, I'm bored. You want everything unlocked and back-up dumped onto a portable drive?"

"Please, and print a list of numbers from the phone?"

"Easy, now get that one out of here before he blows something up," she said jerking a thumb in Ethan's direction, "and be back in the morning, I'll have it ready for pick-up." Then she went right back to ignoring both of them.

Ethan clapped his hands together and made a production of backing away. Even as he did, a high pitched whine kicked up in a half dismantled computer tower near his feet.

A couple crime scene guys backed out of the way, shooting him nervous looks and Clanahan's eyes widened.

"Ellison?"

"Out!" Lauren stated flatly.

"Yeah, we should get out of here." Ethan turned and fled the floor, holding the elevator open until Clanahan clamored inside behind him. "Well that was almost fun."

"Not a technopagan then?"

"Not even a little. It's a daily miracle my cellphone keeps working and I send up a prayer of thanks to Samsung every morning."

Clanahan snorted softly, it almost sounded like a laugh, perish the thought.

"Though to be fair, I haven't caused any explosions lately, not even sparks. Just a lot of blippy screens."

"Blippy huh? That a technical term."

Ethan grinned, the elevator a smooth glide upwards beneath their feet. "Oh yeah, very technical. You can ask Lauren when you go back down to get our reports tomorrow." He caught Clanahan's eye and the grin on his face widened significantly at the other detective's exasperated expression.

"Anyone ever tell you, you're a real shit?"

Ethan shrugged a little. The elevator opened on the first floor to let in more passengers.

"I'm going to grab a couple things out of my desk." Ethan jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the rabbit warren he called home and didn't wait for Clanahan's response. Saturday night for the unit was bustling, patrol officers and lower division detectives, rookies, wrangling drunks and misdemeanors through processing as efficiently as they could manage.

Ethan was used to it.

He wasn't used to the quiet, hulking shadow of his new partner stalking him silently through the chaos. Criminals for the most part started and cringed away, other officers moved before he had to slip past them. They all glanced up and away without ever making any real sort of eye contact.

Ethan reached his tiny island of space unmolested. It was a surprisingly enjoyable feeling. Or it had been right up until the moment Clanahan's entire body drew tight, his head and shoulders snapping up and back as he took in an audible lung full of air. A low, reverberating growl made all the hairs on the back of Ethan's neck stand up.

"What—" he started but Clanahan was already gone, walking—or, well, more like _stalking_ —through the maze of desks towards the back hallway. He was an arrow loosed straight at holding.

"Who's tall, dark, and—"

"Not now," Ethan brushed the detective—someone from arson, he couldn't remember the guy's name—aside and ran after Clanahan.

"Clanahan? Hey!" The werewolf was practically vibrating from the tension in his shoulders, feet planted and gaze fixed unwavering on some poor schmuck in the drunk tank.

#

There was someone calling his name. Distantly, in the more rational part of his brain, Pat was aware of this fact. Someone gripped his arm, gently, not shaking, just firm pressure and the dulcet tones of a low voice repeating _Clanahan! Hey now, hey look at me. Patrick, look at me_ until he could manage to tear his gaze away from the man in the cell.

Ellison's eyes were green. He hadn't noticed that before. Big and green and staring up at him in utter confusion.

All Pat could smell was a Tremblé and blood, old human blood, and the burning stench of too much alcohol. It was the man from the night before, from the scene, the one Pat had told to get lost, here in the South's overnight tank, piss drunk and listing into his cell partner.

Pat stuck a finger right up to the line where hallway became prison cell and snarled, "Him, that one in the red hoodie, I want his name and his booking sheet."

Ellison kept staring at him for a long second then nodded tightly and spun on his heel, yelling for someone back in the main squad room. Pat stayed where he was, eyeing the other man's listless form. To be fair, he looked about five seconds away from vomiting or passing out, but Pat was unwilling to let him out of his sight.

His partner returned after a minute dragging a harried beat officer into the holding area and pointing.

"Hey, this guy one of yours?"

The officer, Badge 456, frowned at the perps then nodded. He and Ellison stood close together, easy and familiar.

"Yeah, picked him up less than an hour ago. Haven't even had time to process him yet. Figured I'd let him sleep whatever this is off, fingerprint him in the morning."

"So, do you even have a name?"

"Well, we've got his wallet and effects in temporary evidence."

Pat growled softly. Ellison made a sharp, placating gesture and took the other officer by the arm, gently.

"Come on, let's get that." They disappeared again. A few minutes passed, there were shouts and, from the other end of the precinct, Pat heard the sounds of dispatch phones erupting in a cacophony of rings.

Ellison returned, shaking his head, but unlocked the holding cell and gestured impatiently at the drunk Tremblé. "You, move, come on. We need to ask you some questions." The words did not appear to penetrate the boozy air around the guy's head. He did nothing but slump further against the wall.

Pat was ready to stalk inside and pull him out by his hair when he felt firm hands on him, restraining.

"Will you calm the fuck down?" Ellison's voice was significantly less calming but he felt his muscles relax in spite of that. Strong, slender fingers ran up and down the length of his forearm, curling under the sleeve of his jacket and slipping around his wrist. He could feel the heat of Ellison's skin through the think fabric of his shirt sleeve.

"I don't know what's got you so agitated but you really need to take a step back here," Ellison murmured. He unbuttoned Pat's cuff and slipped a couple fingers in against his pulse.

Pat grit his teeth and took a deep breath. "He was at the scene this morning." He could feel Ellison's frown like a visceral thing.

"This morning? Like when we were there?"

"No, last night, this morning, during initial processing. I told him to get lost, I thought he was just a gawker."

"Okay," Ellison drawled. He sounded confused but his soothing touch didn't waver and his breathing remained even and obvious. "So why are you going all Wild America now? He's just drunk."

"He's got blood on him, I can smell it."

"His own blood or someone else's?"

"Human blood—someone else's."

"Wonderful," his partner's voice was exasperated now. He let go and stepped into the cell, manhandling the Tremblé to his feet and obviously ignoring Pat's angry noises. He shouldered them all out into the hallway and marched the drunk werewolf down the hall to interrogation. Pat followed close on his heels, all of his senses trained and on high alert.

Ellison kicked the door closed behind them and grit out, "Okay, both of you sit down." He dumped the perp in a chair and gave Pat a significant look. "Sit."

Without thinking Pat obeyed. There was a knock at the door, it made him twitch. Ellison answered it, the same officer from before hovered on the other side with a thin folder in his hands and an evidence bag. He handed both items across the threshold, shot Ellison a querying look which the other man just shook his head at and shut the door between them.

Ellison dropped the evidence bag on the table near Pat's elbow and flipped through the folder, eyes darting down the page and back and forth between Pat and the drunk man.

Pat waited, perched in his seat and staring at the man slumped across the table from him. He kept wavering in his chair, nodding his head and jerking upright a little before slumping again. The smell of cheap whiskey rolled off him in waves and now that he was closer, Pat could smell the blood much more clearly. Definitely human, definitely the same blood he'd detected at the crime scene and at the morgue, Matilde's blood.

"He started a fight in a bar down the street, I recognize the place, some of the younger officers hang out there. That's probably why they called Jim," Ellison said.

"'Jim'?"

"Yeah, Jim, friend Jim Jones, the arresting officer. He's a good guy, one of the few around this place."

That got Pat's attention. He darted a glance up at Ellison but the other man wasn't looking at him. He was reading the file, distractedly sitting in the other chair next to him.

"Breathalyzer put his blood alcohol level at .495%." Ellison blinked and sat back, stared. "Jesus, did you drink the entire bar? How did they not cut you off before you _started a fight_?"

The Tremblé looked up blearily, his pale grey eyes were bloodshot, the pupils blown wide and ringed with angry red. He smacked his lips a couple times, gaze wandering around the room, unable to settle on anything.

Ellison snapped his fingers irritably in the other guys face. "Hey," he said, "hey! Jesus, how is this guy even upright?"

"Werewolf."

His partner huffed audibly and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

"Of course he is. I can't get away from you people can I?"

Pat frowned and finally looked at Ethan. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Obviously not—"

"No, really, that was a shitty thing to say. I just—I just meant... I mean, it's just all I need, someone else to snap and bite my head off and stick his nose up at the way I do things. It wasn't anything against werewolves." He blew out a frustrated breath and refused to meet Pat's eye. "Christ, never mind. It was stupid. Just stop staring at me already and tell me what we're doing in here exactly."

"I told you."

"You said blood. Now we know he started a bar fight. In my experience, which admittedly isn't a lot, when it comes to macho man-on-man bar violence, blood's pretty common. The whole point is to make the other guy bleed more, am I right or am I right?"

Pat shook his head, "The blood's Matilde's."

Ellison's eyebrows shot up his forehead and his mouth fell open a little, surprise and shock evident in every line of his body. "Seriously."

Pat's frown deepened.

"No, never mind, of course you're serious. Wow."

"I didn't kill her," slurred the Tremblé, interrupting them.

"Then you care to explain why you _reek_ with her blood?"

"His name's Joram," Ellison piped up suddenly. Pat darted him a quick look and the other man shrugged a little and smiled crookedly.

"I don't care what his name is, I want to know why he smells like my victim." Pat glared at Joram.

"It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" Ellison sounded disbelieving. Pat wasn't sure how much of that was for show, Ellison seemed partial to playing parts whenever he interacted with suspects on the job, and how much of it was genuine.

His partner continued, "Because I have got to tell you Joram—can I call you that? Seeing as we're now officially looking at you for murder and all—it looks like you're one of those killers who likes to watch the aftermath unfold. Is that why you were at the scene last night? Admiring your handy work?"

Pat smirked a little. When it wasn't being aimed at him, Ellison's attitude was, admittedly, a beautiful thing to watch in action. His expressive face slid between surprise, conciliation and concern as smoothly as the words rolled off his tongue. Pat had to look away, he'd been staring.

Joram waved them away drunkenly, slurring his words badly, a belligerent edge to his tone, "You've got it all wrong."

"We've got it all wrong? You sure about that?" Ellison folded his hands across the interrogation table and leaned in a little, like they were sharing a confidence.

"I told you, I didn't kill anyone."

"But you do appreciate how suspicious you look, right? I mean, I realize you're essentially sitting there with alcohol poisoning—good job getting drunk and picking a fight in a cop bar by the way—but I hope you can still appreciate the position we're in here."

The drunk man mumbled something unintelligible.

Ellison slapped a hand against the table without warning, even Pat jumped. He glanced at the other man askance and watched his face grow hard.

"Why do you have Matilde Walker's blood on you?" He glared. "Did you kill her?"

"No!" Joram exclaimed, snarling and half stumbling out of his chair. Pat surged to his feet and planted an unyielding hand in the center of the other werewolf's chest, shoving him back into his chair with a loud growl. They snapped at each other for a moment, before the Tremblé subsided. He hung his head, trembling a little.

"I swear, I didn't kill her. I was at the scene last night because I heard about the disturbance, that's all! It's disputed territory, I had an obligation to keep an eye on things."

"And you expect me to just take your word for it?"

"Why would I lie?"

Ellison snorted derisively, but Pat spoke this time, "I can think of a couple reasons why. Say you didn't kill her, I still have to wonder, maybe one of your pack mates did. This is going to get out and when it does, it won't make the Maccabees look very good, will it?"

Their suspect twitched.

Ellison touched his hand lightly beneath the table. Pat met his eyes, followed the slight tilt of his head at the door and nodded. They stood in unison.

"We'll let you think about that for a few minutes," Pat growled.

Ellison smiled brightly, "Don't go anywhere."

They left. Mindful of heightened werewolf senses, they didn't stop until they were back in the ground floor squad room, at Ellison's desk in the corner, sequestered away from more curious eyes. Ellison slumped into his seat and Pat stole an empty chair from a neighboring desk.

"So?" Ellison asked expectantly. "Any lies?"

Pat shrugged a little, rolling the tension out of his shoulder and trying to take deep, calming breaths. It was easy now, with space and the rank smell of sweat and sour lunch smell coming from the other detectives.

"That much alcohol, it's fucking with his system so it's hard for me to say."

His partner pinched the bridge of his nose. "You made a good point in there. I know how suspicious I acted about Aaron Maccabee but..."

"But the truth is we really don't have any idea what happened. And you don't like authority figures or people turning their noses up at you," Pat said. He couldn't keep his lips from twitching a little. Ellison rolled his eyes and threw a pen at him

"What can I say, too much history there."

Pat looked at him questioningly but whatever Ellison might mean by that he waved it away.

"Okay, so maybe Joram in there is our guy or maybe he knows our guy. Or maybe he really was just snooping around being a nuisance and rejoicing on the inside about how the Maccabees have managed to screw themselves without a Tremblé having to get their hands dirty. Setup or coincidence... Is it cliche to say I don't believe in coincidence?"

"Yes."

"You're right. I've been watching way too many cop shows on television." Ellison grinned at Pat, it was distracting. "Do you think we've left him in there long enough?"

Pat nodded and led the way back. They entered silently, grim expressions fixed firmly back in place on both of their faces. Pat's wolf rumbled softly, pleased with the synchronicity of their actions. Pat tried not to think about just how _much_ his wolf liked it, in fact.

Joram Tremblé's head jerked up from the table; a red crease bisected his forehead. It looked like he was actually starting to sober up, werewolf metabolism hard at work.

"Whatever you think happened, it wasn't one of us."

"You must be happy about it though," Pat said, his tone cool. "It's rather convenient."

"You really think we'd be that obvious? That stupid? Come on McClanahan." Joram's eyes flashed a little though he didn't look straight at Pat. "It doesn't pay to hurt norms. Doesn't matter if it's your pack or not, what one of us does impacts the rest. The infighting is bad enough but the second anyone steps out of line, outside the blood, the human media just loves to print a new expose on our 'savage nature'."

"You still haven't told us how you got our dead girl's blood on you," Ellison said.

Joram huffed and unrolled his shirtsleeve. The cuff of the long sleeve crew neck had a smear of rusty red flaking off. "I was snooping around. After your guys packed up this morning."

"Why?"

"Because," he grit out between sharp teeth, "it's like I just told you, what one of us does reflects on everybody. We don't truck with interlopers coming into _our_ territory—"

"It's not—" Ellison started to interrupt but Tremblé flashed his teeth and talked over him.

" _Our_ territory and killing. Shit like this happens."

"Did you find anything?" Pat was listening to the thready thump of the other wolf's heart. It was pretty steady. While it was much easier for werewolves to lie to one another than it was for anyone else to lie to a werewolf, it wasn't impossible to detect a lie between two wolves.

Joram sighed and slumped. He was definitely starting to sober up. "Did you?"

"You're not the one asking questions here."

"No, I didn't. The scene was saturated with cop smell, with _your_ scent. You're kind of a toppy bastard McClanahan, you know? But I guess you'd have to be, your mother's son and all that."

Pat bared his teeth and the other man shivered.

"I thought I caught a whiff of something suspicious, followed it back to Rainier Avenue but I lost the scent there."

"What kind of something?" Ellison asked eagerly.

Joram shrugged. He glanced at Ellison but turned and spoke to Pat. "It's hard to describe. Like a wolf, like a Maccabee, but that's not surprising, the whole area is crawling with them. They're trying to shore up their claim on the area which is patently _not thei—_ "

"I don't care about your dispute, focus."

"It was layered in with the dead girl's scent. Wolf, but I couldn't identify it. It made—it was worse than any alpha I've ever smelled, you know what that's like."

Pat inclined his head. Alpha pheromones were potent, powerful, they reached right into where you lived and made you quiver in submission.

He could feel Ellison's eyes on him, questioning, demanding. He couldn't hope to explain it to the other detective though. It was common knowledge, mages were about as far from werewolves as you could get on the paranormal scale. Wolves were all primal instinct and visceral sense, pack dynamics and family and blood above everything else. Mages, strict magic users in general, were _all_ lone creatures, flighty and inconsistent, reading books and bound up in words and energy and bending the world to their will.

There was no way his partner could understand the sort of power lower pack members willingly gave up to their alphas.

"Well that's completely unhelpful," Ellison's tone was audibly frustrated. "You better be prepared to give us more than that if you expect me to believe any of it."

Tremblé's bloodshot eyes burned fire across the interrogation table and he snapped his teeth a little. Pat growled reflexively and let his hands flex against the tabletop, his teeth sharpening in his own mouth. All the hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the threat.

"Why would I give a fuck what you think?" Joram sneered. He sniffed loudly, darted a glance at Pat. "You should keep a better rein on your _partner_ ," his voice a slap.

"Hey, you better watch yourself!" Ellison stood, indignation rolling off of him in waves. His cheeks flushed a little, eyes bright and mouth a grim line. "Seriously, where the hell do you all get off judging the way I choose to live my life. _My_ life."

"We're done here," Pat interrupted. He recognized the trembling rage in his limbs. The words were little different from his own censorship of Ethan's behavior and it made shame squirm in his gut. He needed to remove himself before he reached across the table and buried his fist in Tremblé's sneering mouth.

Ellison grabbed the evidence bag and the file folder and stalked out of the room. Pat followed. Badge 456 was waiting in the hallway—Jones, Ellison had called him Jones—and he stood well in Ethan's space, a friendly hand cupping his elbow. The sight filled Pat with irritation and he stepped between them, growling at Jones, "Book him," he indicated where they'd left Joram Tremblé cuffed in the room and transferred the files from his partner to the patrol man, "suspected murder."

Jones' eyes widened and he waited for a nod from Ellison before he followed Pat's orders.

Hesitantly, Pat brushed his fingers along the tense line of his partner's shoulder. The other man twitched and glanced back at him, his green eyes dark, sandy colored eyebrows pulled low into a frown. Even his hair hung across his forehead limply.

"What?"

"Come on, there's something else I should show you."

#

Ethan followed Clanahan quietly back upstairs. He wasn't feeling very friendly to the other werewolf, or really, werewolves in general. Hell, he was about one wrong word away from claiming the entire world was out to judge him. Usually, he didn't let it get to him. He had seventeen years worth of experience disappointing people—twenty years, really, Toronto being too close to Montreal to escape the shadow of his father's brooding disappointment after he left Põhja and later Canada.

It's why he enjoyed working alone so much, being casually friendly with guys like Jim Jones just enough that he could count on him if he needed back up in a pinch, but pretty much running his own show the rest of the time. If there was no one standing next to you when the shit hit the fan, there was no one to be disappointed when you failed. There was no one to fucking _sniff you_ after you sleep with your ex-lover—ex-friend, ex-roommate, ex-everything.

He didn't notice where they were headed until Clanahan locked the bathroom door behind him. Ethan glanced at the empty urinals, the presumably empty stalls and back at the other man. The setting was not improving his mood.

"Clandestine much? I mean, the bathroom, really?"

Clanahan shot him a quelling look and peered under the stalls just to double check that they were alone. When he stood to face Ethan, his face looked surprisingly contrite though he didn't actually go so far as to apologize or anything for being a conservative, judgmental dick. Not that Ethan really expected him to.

"Trust me, if this seems like a scene out of a terrible spy movie, our victim started it."

"Oh yeah, blame the dead girl, that's classy," Ethan said, rolling his eyes. He watched Clanahan pull something out of his pocket and offer it over, he took it and turned it over under the flickering fluorescent lights. "It's a key."

"I found it taped to the bottom of Matilde's desk."

He shot Clanahan a disbelieving look.

"Seriously," he said.

Ethan felt the back of his neck flush and his heart stutter just a little.

"Well that's not ominous at all."

Clanahan grinned. It made his entire face lighten and Ethan couldn't look away. He gave himself a mental slap and jerked his eyes back to the key.

"So, uh, we should find what this unlocks. Maybe our unassuming pet lover was also a drug runner." He noticed the scratches on the key head and sighed, "Great, not even a number. This is going to be all kinds of fun to track down."

"Maybe," Clanahan said.

Ethan glanced at him. "What?"

"Well, couldn't you do a locator spell or something?"

He laughed, "Sure, I'll just whip that one out of my ass." Clanahan's face went blank and tense again and Ethan sighed explosively. "I guess the great exploits—and by exploits I do mean failures—of Ethan Ellison don't make the gossip mill of Major Crimes but I'm actually terrible at, well." Now the werewolf just looked confused.

"Magic, Clanahan, I'm terrible at magic. On a good day I can keep my coffee hot or put my signature on all of my paperwork at once, or trip someone, but that's kind of the extent of my skills."

"I know who the Ellisons are."

Ethan snapped his head around to stare at Clanahan. "Then I guess you know more than I do."

"If you're so bad, then what the hell happened this morning at the crime scene?"

"A fluke, I've never seen anything like that before. I've never been able to pick up much more than the echo of an emotion, let alone actual pictures, images."

"Well it was an especially traumatic sight. Isn't that supposed to leave extra... psychic residue or whatever you call it?"

Ethan stomped down on his urge to laugh, mouthing the words "psychic residue" with incredulity and a little amusement. Clanahan gave him an exasperated look.

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't," Ethan said shaking his head. "That's possibly one of the worst things I've ever heard."

"Oh screw you Ellison. Like you don't make enough dog references; I'm a _were_ wolf you asshole."

He had a disgruntled expression on his face and Ethan couldn't keep the laugh in any longer. He snickered and didn't flinch away when the other man punched him in the arm.

"Ow, jesus, abuse!" Ethan sobered. "I'll need a few things. Uh, spell ingredients and a book." He checked the time on his phone and sighed, "We'll have to do it tomorrow anyways."

"Why?"

"Because it's almost seven already and my wiccan supplier likes to spend her weekend nights dancing under the stars or communing with the water or something like that." He held up a hand to forestall comments, "She has the best herbs in Seattle so just keep whatever comment you want to make about magic users to yourself, thanks."

Clanahan shut his mouth with a satisfying click. "All right. I guess we should call it a night then."

Ethan was surprised. "Really?"

The other man shrugged and diverted his gaze, "We have to wait for IT, Tremblé's in processing. It'll be easier for you if we wait to check out the scent trail he mentioned in the daylight and like you said, no attempts at a trace until tomorrow. So, yeah, I'll drive you home."

"Well when you put it like that," Ethan said, smiling. "Actually, you think you can drop me off at my car? I'd rather it didn't get towed for being parked two nights in a row."

Clanahan pulled out his keys. "Sure."

He wasn't really prepared to call the feeling between them companionable as they headed out into the cool night air, but at the very least, they weren't arguing. He was feeling fairly sure that at this exact moment Clanahan wasn't day dreaming about biting him or running him over with his ancient muscle car. It seemed like progress. He hoped it was progress.

## **CHAPTER SIX**

##

Christophe had not disappeared by the time Ethan drove home—in his own vehicle, after picking up his own groceries. It looked like Christophe had made himself comfortable in the intervening hours.

There was a small pile of dirty dishes in the sink, his espresso maker a mess of grounds and stale shots, the throw pillows from the couch tossed onto the living room floor and the television blaring. Bratty fourteen and fifteen year olds illuminated the dark living room, discussing their unplanned (or even _planned_ and wasn't that a horrifying thought) pregnancies. Christophe looked entranced by it from where he was sprawled across the length of the sofa, one hand lying limp against the carpet.

If Ethan slammed the door harder than he needed to, well, it was his apartment damn it.

He steadfastly ignored Chris's presence, dumped the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and stomped into the back. Streetlights were beginning to flicker to life outside, their ambiance filling his bedroom with a muted glow. Far on the horizon, between the tall buildings of downtown, he could see the trailing edge of daylight slipping away.

Ethan shrugged out of his coat and pants, hung them back up in the closet and tossed his shirt on top of the dresser. It was barely wrinkled; he could afford to be lazy and wear it again tomorrow.

Dressed in just his boxers, Ethan stood before the balcony door enjoying the cool breeze across his skin, and stretched, arching his back and pulling his arms up above his head. His spine cracked, a line of little pops running up from his lumbar region to his shoulders. The pull of muscle and bone was relaxing. He let go of the tension his new partner seemed to continually inspire in him and just _breathed_ for a minute.

"Now that is a gorgeous sight to behold."

Ethan rolled his head slowly and carefully, working the kinks out of his neck and sighing. Lethargically he looked back over his shoulder at Christophe. The other man leaned casually in the doorway, eyes sharp on his body and face expressionless. His eyes were dilated in the dim light but Ethan suspected it was more from arousal than the lack of light. They'd always been good at lust.

"I told you to get out."

"We both know you don't mean that."

Ethan looked away.

"No, I guess I didn't."

The room lay still, the neighborhood quiet on a Saturday night. Ethan didn't have to strain too hard to pick up Christophe's gliding footsteps. A hand ran down the length of his back, curling around his waist and pulling him back into the other man's chest. He sighed but didn't quite relax into it all the way, keeping his head up and his legs firmly planted. Christophe nosed behind his ear. He all but purred into Ethan's skin.

"Why are you here?" Ethan asked when the silence had stretched on for several minutes. He felt weary and wrung out.

The truth was, he spent Monday through Friday chasing down criminals and slogging through the dregs of the city's denizens but there was a routine about it all. He'd left his old life—his father's family, the expectations, the abuse—and Christophe behind almost eight years ago and made a new life for himself here. He didn't know why the other man had chosen now of all times to show up again but it was like a heavy weight settling into every joint.

"Maybe I just missed you. Maybe I felt like reliving a few old times. We had a lot of good ones. Can you blame me?"

Ethan sighed and let Christophe take more of his weight. "No, maybe not." He felt the other man smile against his skin and bite at his neck playfully before he pulled a little farther away.

"Put on something... spangly. We're going out for a drink."

Ethan groaned loudly and pushed away. "Fuck no."

"Fuck _yes_ is the word you're looking for darling." Christophe reached up and grabbed his face, pulling him into a hard kiss. His hands refused to let Ethan pull back and his tongue stroked possessively across the soft pallet of his mouth before he withdrew. "Five minutes, then I'm carrying you out of here whether you like it or not." He grinned cheekily and disappeared.

And that was the rest, wasn't it. Living here, almost 2600 miles away from everything he'd known back in Canada, finally free enough to breathe on his own. It had taken running away to another country, his mother's country, to finally feel like an adult. Like he might have a handle on his own life away from the crushing weight of failure.

There was no denying the pull Christophe had on him, the way his electric personality crackled across Ethan's every nerve synapse. It was habit to lean into the warm lithe line of his body, to curl up with him on lazy days, to dance until dawn every night of the week, until he couldn't think—until he couldn't feel. His body was well trained in its response, heart hammering and cock twitching with interest at every cool, suggestive word out of his ex-lover's mouth.

Eight years and there he was, standing mostly naked in the dark light of his bedroom— _his_ bedroom, in _his_ city—half hard and all he could think suddenly was that he wished Christophe would skip the club, saunter back into the room and bend him over the bed.

As he drug a pair of threadbare jeans over his hips, an image flickered across his thoughts, the shivery half-remembered sensation of Clanahan dogging his steps through the precinct. The way he'd positioned himself, cutting in between Ethan and Jim outside Interrogation, all dark, broody eyebrows and flashing blue eyes, stark white teeth.

Ethan shook his head briskly and found a mostly clean shirt hanging out of his dresser, shrugged it on. It wasn't spangly in the least but he was twenty-eight years old, not nineteen. Christophe could just deal with being disappointed.

When he emerged from the bedroom, the other man barely looked at him, just shuffled him into his old leather jacket—and where on earth he'd found it, Ethan had no idea—and pulled him outside with a firm, unyielding arm around the his waist.

They washed up outside a glittering dance club downtown, some place Ethan had never been to before and certainly didn't feel like entering now. Robyn thumped over the speakers, bleeding into Tinie Tempah.

Christophe kept a firm grip on him, put alcohol into his hand and shouted into his ear, "Relax and let it move right through you. I know you remember how." Before he maneuvered them both out onto the dance floor. The crush of gyrating, sweaty bodies was an old familiar rush. Ethan inhaled and exhaled, drank a half of his vodka-cran in one long pull and rolled the tension out of his shoulders again. Christophe tucked up close behind him, ass to pelvis, and wrapped a long arm around his chest, nudging his face into the space between Ethan's neck and shoulder.

This is what users like them lived for. The other people didn't even have to be paranormals, all they needed was the collective energy. Kinetic, magnetic, blood rushing through veins, the harmonious clang of electronic dance pop climbing down his throat and setting his body into motion. Ethan moved with the beat of the music, of Christophe's body against his own. Magic, the most visceral kind, the kind created by living, breathing humanity, rolled across his skin. It was the best kind of high.

Ethan imagined this must be what it was like for real wizards all the time. That feeling like the world throbbed, suspended at the edge of his fingertips. He imagined this was how Christophe felt most of the time; he'd always been a far better proficient, actually graduating from Põhja in the top percentile of his class two years ahead of Ethan.

"Stop thinking pet," Christophe spoke in a hoarse whisper, just loud enough to hear him above the spiking pulse of the music. The DJ spun them into a new track, something by Kaskade this time, a strong clear female voice ricocheting above the heads of the dancers.

Ethan carefully raised his arms above his head, mindful of his drink, and leaned into Christophe's heat. The other man's hands roamed across his chest and abs, sneaking under the thin cotton of his shirt. It was like they'd never been apart, moving mindlessly into synch.

"There you go, you gorgeous thing."

He shivered and let his head fall forward, enjoying the warm tongue sliding across his sweating skin. Christophe kissed his throat, sucking a little on his Adam's apple. This time he craned his head around to kiss the other man, sloppy, interrupted kisses, more gasping into each other's mouths and glancing bites.

Christophe grinned beneath the strobe lights and pressed his hard-on into Ethan's ass. He was every wicked good thing Ethan had spent so long trying to forget. He was a sweet, hot drink in the middle of winter. He was sex with a stranger who knows you better than you know yourself. Like a god damn rush of blood to the head. Ethan couldn't feel anything except his skin where it met Chris's skin. He let his consciousness spiral into obscurity.

#

Pat couldn't put a finger on it but he felt distinctly unsettled as he drove across town. He'd left Ethan in a car park in the Fremont District with a promise that the other detective would pick up all the supplies needed for the tracking spell before he came into work the next morning.

He'd looked distracted and tired as he'd driven away, despite taking a significant chunk of the morning off. Pat didn't know the other detective anywhere well enough to be able to tell if this was normal or an atypical response to the sort of day they'd had. He hoped his partner would be able to get a good night's rest and start fresh tomorrow. Every instinct he had was telling him that things were only going to get worse before they cracked this case.

Now though, a vague sense of unease in his gut grew stronger and stronger with every city block.

Saturday night, members of the McClanahan pack all congregated at the main house. His father and two older sisters got together and cooked a ridiculous amount of food, enough to feed the fifteen or twenty-five pack members who, on any given weekend, were likely to show up. Pat's job in the department kept him working weird hours and he wasn't always able to get back to his parents' house but he did try to visit semi-regularly in spite of that.

Now, Pat craved familiar. A real meal and cheerful conversation, whether he participated or simply listened to it wash over him while he ate, would hopefully be just the thing to clear his head.

With that in mind, Pat pointed the Camaro northwest and drove into an old, rich part of Queen Anne Hill where the family home sat at the top of a steep, tree lined street. It was a narrow Victorian a-frame with porch and upstairs balcony, carved railings and curlicue moldings. It was painted in shades of white and blue, glowing softly in the dim light and surrounded on both sides by similar houses, tall and crammed in together, taller than they were wide. The driveway was already full of cars and Pat had to park several blocks down the street.

It was full dark by the time he tromped up the front steps and inside. Loud noise exploded from the kitchen where it wouldn't take a werewolf nose to detect the warm scent of shepherd's pie coming out of the oven. His mouth watered, reminding Pat that he had forgotten to eat all day, too distracted—by _Ethan_ his wolf whispered with a low growl—too busy.

"Patrick, is that you?"

His mother's clear voice cut through the air, the voice of the pack alpha. The noise in the kitchen lulled then broke out into exclamations. His younger sister Grace burst through the doors and hugged him fiercely.

"We weren't expecting you, idiot, why didn't you say you were coming? We would have made like, _tons_ of extras."

Pat gave a little mock growl and grabbed her in an easy headlock, knuckling through her messy brown hair. Grace squawked indignantly and fought free of his hold, shoving him into the wall.

"Jerk. I'm being serious. It's like, night to remember the mother country or something. All of your favorite foods." There she paused, looking thoughtful. "Kind of like mum knew you were coming, huh."

Pat shrugged and hung up his work jacket. "Just tell me you weren't involved in the actual cooking part and it sounds delicious."

She stuck her tongue out at him and they tumbled back into the kitchen proper, giggling shamelessly and propping each other up. The rest of his brothers and sisters greeted him—the oldest, Malorie waved from where she was arguing with their father over the stove, then Cara, Campbell—who was barely a year his junior—and finally Roisin, the youngest at seventeen.

"Well son this is a lovely surprise." His mother spoke quietly from her place at the table. Teagan Clanahan, only daughter of Ian Clanahan, was a stately sort of woman. Pat had inherited her dark hair and her eyes, her height and smooth, pale skin. His sisters on the other hand were all ruddy and strawberry blonde like their father. Of their six children, Patrick took the most after their mother in both looks and temperament.

Now, his mother laid aside the pages she'd been reading—proofs for whatever book she was editing—and held out a hand. Pat leaned down and kissed her hair, squeezing her hand companionably and murmuring a soft hello.

"I thought you would be busy," she said, leaning back to give him a neutral look; he knew it was anything but. It didn't take a genius to work out she'd heard about the commotion down in the south. Every wolf in the city kept a keen eye and an ear cocked on the Maccabee-Tremblé feud. They'd been harassing each other for over seventy-five years so it wasn't anything new, Pat knew that much, but they certainly seemed to have upped the violence in the last couple of years for reasons he himself was unaware.

"Go wash up, you smell rank."

Pat grimaced and took her advice. He waved and nodded in greeting to Malorie's husband as the other man attempted to corral the grandchildren and cousins in the living room.

In the hall, cousin Stacey and Liam were quietly arguing about something. Their conversation ended abruptly as he approached though Liam wasted little time to paste a smile onto his face and offer Pat a handshake.

"Didn't expect to see you tonight Patty," he said a little too loudly.

Pat restrained his urge to frown. "Don't call me that."

Stacey stared at the floor and after a minute of awkward silence he slipped past them and into the washroom.

When he emerged, having viciously scrubbed his arms, face and the back of his neck in an attempt to shake the clinging scent of death and blood, the food was ready. The family settled in at the massive dining table. They ate shepherd's pie and colcannon and soda bread—his father's mother's recipe—and his father pulled out several bottles of raspberry wine which had been the old man's gardening project the summer before. Patrick knew it was for his own benefit, half eldest son honor and the rest, a sort of prodigal son returns celebration.

Sitting there, with his baby niece on his lap, alternating feeding her bites of mashed potato and stuffing bread into his face, Pat realized how long it had been since his last visit. It hadn't always been like this. A year ago he'd been, if not a weekly fixture, at least a regular one around this dinner table. His old partner too.

Adam had had no living relatives to speak of and he'd always jumped at the chance to tag along to McClanahan family get togethers. Pat and Malorie had even taken bets on whether he'd work up the nerve to ask their sister Grace out in twelve months or thirteen. Then it hadn't mattered, because he'd died in six and Pat's life ground to a halt.

It wasn't until this moment though that it really hit him, how far he'd removed himself from the rest of the family. In the aftermath, he hadn't even been able to say the man's name to anyone, let alone his mother when she'd tried to comfort him.

They'd all liked Adam—maybe more than was even normal to like the guy your son worked with—but he'd belonged first and foremost to _Pat_.

Baby Laurie pushed his plate away and squirmed off of his lap, using the dining chairs to help her wobble back to her mother. Pat gave Campbell's wife a sorry expression which she waved away and tried to focus on his food. He could feel his mother's eyes on him and he knew he wasn't going to escape talking to her tonight. Feeling tired all of a sudden, he sent up a quiet hope that he'd be able to restrain her to topics concerning other werewolves and out of his head.

After dinner she all but threw him over her shoulder and hauled him to the library before he could even think about volunteering to wash the dishes. Pat had twenty-nine years of experience to know just how futile it was to argue.

His mother ushered him into the big, plush visitor's chair next to her oak desk. It made him think about sitting in the principal's office. He'd never been especially afraid of his principal; the man hadn't held a candle to how frightening his mother could be.

Teagan Clanahan settled into her chair and stared silently at her son.

"You knew I was going to show up." This didn't need confirmation but Pat wasn't sure what else to say. He was tired and uncomfortable and he wanted to ask her questions about the feud in his precinct but he wasn't entirely sure what to ask. Not surprising she just gave him an unimpressed look and tipped back in her chair.

"I can't just discuss an open investigation with you," Pat prevaricated, feeling cornered.

That got her to smile. "Did I say to?"

"No," he muttered, "but you look like you expect it."

Teagan rapped sharply on the top of her desk to get his attention. "I would never ask you to do something that violated the tenets of your position, don't be silly. But I am here if you had... questions."

Pat sighed explosively, "We've got next to nothing at this point. Just a Tremblé in custody who may or may not also have been conducting his own investigation and the Maccabee alpha hates my partner."

His mother's eyebrows shot up sharply. "Your partner," she said, sotto voice.

That made him twitch. He hadn't really intended to tell her about Ellison. "Just someone the Captain assigned to assist me on the case. He's a mage." Pat laughed softly. "A quote 'terrible' one too. Or so he told me tonight."

"And how are you getting along with this terrible magician?" she asked neutrally.

Pat shrugged and stared at the walls lined with books. "Terribly?"

His mother _tsked_ softly and shook her head at him. "Oh Patrick."

"I swear to god it's not—well, it's not _all_ my fault. I never expected to say this of a grown ass man, but Ethan's a total brat!"

"Is that what you call him?" his mother interrupted.

"What?" Pat asked, caught off guard.

"Ethan, is that what you call him?"

"Well, that's his name."

She smiled softly, her bright blue eyes—the same as his own—crinkling up at the corners.

Pat shook his head, backtracking, "But no, of course not. I only just met the guy." The look she gave him was unsettling. It made his wolf squirm, hemmed in and trapped by her knowing smile. He didn't know what it was she thought she knew though.

"Ethan the bratty mage and my son the lone wolf, sound's like a match made." Pat couldn't quite tell how much she was mocking him and how much she was actually being serious. Mothers were scary like that. Behind all the nurturing and kisses and hot soup there was a lurking monster who subsisted on the _schaudenfreude_ of its children.

"I'm hardly a lone wolf," he protested quietly.

This made his mother freeze for a fraction of a second, her face turning soft, eyes a little too worried for his comfort. "You know, I'm not upset at you. There's nothing you could have... we do miss you though."

Pat had to look away. He wasn't about to let himself whine and tear up in front of his _mother_.

"I've been really busy with work. It has nothing to do with—"

Teagan sat up and reached across the desk to touch his hand. She held his gaze for a long breath before letting him look away. "It wasn't your fault. Patrick, I know you don't want to hear this, let alone from me, but you have got to stop beating yourself up about Adam."

"How can you say that?" he snapped, suddenly feeling just a little bit angry. "He was _my_ friend, and he was out there on his own because of _me_. Because I had a bad night, because I had to lock myself up like a fucking dog. If I was half the man I'm supposed to be, none of this would have happened, I would have _been there_ when he needed me."

"You have no way to know that."

"I do actually," he said, defeat weighing him down. "He was responding to a call, mom! Any other night, I would have been there."

His mother looked at him sternly. He could feel the frustration brimming up in her. "And maybe they would have killed you both. This guilt, this isn't you. You're better than this, and that boy—the last thing he would want is for you to wallow in grief for the rest of your days, cutting yourself off from your family. From a new partner."

"I told you, Ellison, he's just temporary. It's just this case. It's all politics mom."

She snorted delicately and slouched back in her chair again. "Politics, to bring a mage into werewolf business? I know Jordan Augustas is smarter than that."

Pat barked a short breath of laughter. The sarcasm coloring his mother's voice was comforting and familiar, it broke the tension, sloughed a bit of the weight off his shoulders. "God, you have no idea. It's kind of a nightmare every time he gets near another wolf. I haven't ever met someone so... belligerent." His mother was smiling at him.

"I can't tell you what happened exactly but you saw the headline this morning. I was hoping maybe you could explain _why_ the Maccabees and Tremblé's are fighting in the first place? I mean, it started back when grandda was a kid, right?"

Teagan tapped her fingers, contemplatively, her eyes growing distant as she considered the question. "Whiskey I think."

"Whiskey?"

"Whiskey smuggling, yeah. Prohibition started early in this state, I don't know if you realize that, well before it went federal and Seattle had a terrible reputation for being wet."

"But it's not anymore. How are they still fighting about that?"

She shrugged. "Dearest, we're wolves, why do we fight about anything? At the end of the day it all boils down to territory, to what is _yours_. Way back when, some Tremblé bought a warehouse too close to Jakob Maccabee and we've never heard the end of it."

"Okay," Pat said, "but that doesn't really help me understand why they're going at it again so viciously. There's been something like a two hundred percent uptick in violence this past year, something had to have—"

"Started the fires raging again? That, I can't tell you. Aaron Maccabee, as you know, is a notorious recluse, I'm surprised you got in to speak with him at all. He doesn't talk to the blood and he doesn't appreciate us interfering with any of his kids. As for Martiene Tremblé, well I don't want to know what he's thinking most of the time. That wolf is crazier than a sack of hammers if you ask me. Which you did," she teased, smirking a little.

"But something must have set them off. A property acquisition maybe—christ, that'll be a nightmare to sift through though."

"Or it could have been a Romeo and Juliet drama."

"God I hope not."

"Was the victim last night a wolf?"

Pat took a second to weigh his options, finally settling on the truth over obfuscating, "No, she was a norm. She helped people find their lost pets for crying out loud."

"I don't know what to tell you sweetie. Those two families are keeping a tight lid on the reasons for their damage. But I'd suggest you let Aaron cool off, lull him into a sense of security before you go back for more questions. When you do, don't go to him either, go to one of the lower pack members, someone he doesn't have an active eye on. You'll get more that way I can guarantee it. Plus, I'd hate to hear how the Maccabee alpha tore your little magician apart."

Pat grimaced. "He's not my magician."

His mother sighed a little and came around the desk to stroke his hair off his forehead. It was an old, familiar gesture, the tactile contact like cool water lapped up by a dry tongue.

"Of course he's yours. At least for the moment, and you've got to hold onto that, take care of it."

#

They made it back to the apartment who knows how many hours later, drunk on beer and vodka and more sour apple liquor than Ethan would ever be willing to own up to. He felt higher than a kite, both disconnected and viscerally aware of his body all at the same time. Christophe, who had drunk just as much if not more, maintained admirable motor control, managing to wrestle them straight back into the bedroom.

Two sweaty bodies, they collapsed onto the bed, making a terrific CRASH/BANG while the frame threatened to buckle.

Ethan let the weight of the other man push him back into the sheet, he sank into it. His clothes were sweaty and in disarray, sticking to him in odd places. Every point of contact, skin to skin, between them crackled like a live wire. He swore, or he would have sworn could he have found his voice and actual words, that his entire body was just one exposed nerve.

This feeling was better than anything else in the universe, it had to be. How could anything top it? Ethan's thoughts rabbited too quickly around his skull. Maybe if he'd been just a touch more sober he could have recognized what a terrible idea it had been, letting Christophe manhandle him uptown. Maybe he could have recognized the signs, that he was tripping high on too much exposure, too much contact, after a veritable desert of magical energy. But he wasn't anywhere near his right mind just at the moment.

"Kiss me," Ethan demanded. His mouth was moving and there were words scratching their way out, a low incoherent mumble. Chris seemed to understand though because he collapsed on top of Ethan, their legs tangled, and kissed him obediently. It made him laugh into the kiss, open mouthed—the thought of Chris, being obedient. It was suddenly the funniest thought he'd ever thought.

Christophe grumbled and reached up beneath his T-shirt and pinched his nipple. Ethan curled up into the sensation with a gasp but kept laughing. He grabbed the other magician by the head and pulled him in closer, half giggling half biting at his lower lip, all sloppy uncoordinated spit. Enthusiasm more than skill was the name of the game.

"Jesus fuck, darling, you are an absolute wreck, aren't you?" Christophe mumbled against his skin. Ethan smiled manically and clung to him.

"I miss your hair, it's too short."

Christophe nosed back behind his ear, trailing little biting kisses and whispered just so, "We can't all have such soft curls now can we?"

Ethan shivered.

"S'not curly, asshole."

He tugged on Ethan's hair. "Pretty close though, like it used to be."

"Got regulations now." Ethan frowned. The bedroom was a soft, dark blur. The sweat cooled on his skin and he snuggled closer into the heat from the other man, running the tips of his fingers across the tender skin of his sides. Christophe pressed them together more tightly and huffed out a breath.

"Darling, darling, darling you're breaking my heart, you and the police and your regulations. Shh, just be quiet now. It'll be like it was before, just the two of us locked up tight away from the big bad world." He worked Ethan out of his clothes, reclaiming his spot on top of the other man and framing his flushed face with his hands.

Ethan felt all the weight fall out of his body, all except a lead line in his throat. It weighed his head down into the pillows. He swallowed a couple times but never quiet succeeded. Christophe was still stroking over his skin, licking the salt from his skin. All of a sudden, Ethan wanted to cry. His whole head felt full of cotton.

"Kiss me," he croaked against the desperate, clawing sensation. But the words were lost in a rush of traffic noise from the street below.

## **CHAPTER SEVEN**

##

Ethan Ellison would never claim to be a monk. In no universe would he ever even think the word in the course of an average day. He liked sex, he liked to drink, he occasionally liked to let loose with his body and what little magic he possessed.

When he was seventeen he applied to the Canadian government to be emancipated from his father's guardianship. It was eleven months until his eighteenth birthday. As justification for his petition, as proof that he had finally had enough, he showed the child services advocate the scars on his lower back and the places where he'd had his fingers broken for failing to _"try hard enough and concentrate."_

School Põhja stood well outside the laws of mere norms, so no one was ever charged with anything as scandalous as child abuse or neglect. Instead, they quietly declared him an adult and allowed him his first real chance to get away from his father's magical regime.

Alone, fiscally cut off and ill-equipped for the real world, Ethan had sought succor from the only friend he still had. He'd gone to where Christophe lived in Toronto. In their youth, he had been a kind shoulder to lean on during black days in the Great Northern, when Ethan was exhausted and trembling from rigorous lessons trying to eek out power he simply couldn't grasp. They'd been friends, confidants. He'd taken Ethan's virginity right before graduating and whispered promises that less than a year later, Ethan came to the city to make good on. At nineteen, Christophe was a graduate with honors from Põhja, then studying Magical Law at the University of Toronto. He opened his door on a dreary October day and let Ethan stay without asking too many questions.

They had lived in a tiny cupboard of an apartment down the street from the University and tried dating for almost a year before calling it quits the first time. This would set the precedent for much of their relationship over the next three years, living and breathing in each other's pockets, engaged in a cycling love affair of booze, drugs and magic fueled parties. And sex, you couldn't forget the sex.

Ethan had depended on Christophe for so much in those early days, shelter and companionship and everything in between, while he tried to learn how to live in the real world. He hadn't felt qualified to do much of anything back then. No real magical skill to speak of, not even a completed degree— if that's what you could call an education from Põhja. With a little encouragement, he'd ended up studying for a GED, like a norm, but at the time it had been freeing, eye opening, even as he worked a string of minimum wage, entry level jobs.

At twenty, when the shine of their off-again-on-again fucking had been decidedly _off_ and Christophe had been set to finish his JD, Ethan received word that his estranged mother had died. He had only the vaguest memory of the woman: the smell of burning sugar and rose water, the impression of a soft hand holding his, showing him how to press flowers and pick the best nightshade. He remembered enough to know that she'd divorced his father almost fifteen years before and lost custody of him in the ensuing legal battle. That she'd gone back to her family in the States.

Now, as he stood on the cusp of true adulthood, a letter materialized from an uncle he had never heard of, let alone met, entreating him to come home. Home in this case being, the Ellison family marina.

He'd spent a month debating whether or not to leave Canada. For Ethan, family had rarely meant anything good. Even living five hundred kilometers away from his father—Alexandre Pelletier, the family patriarch—every day still felt like he walked the streets with a noose tightening around his neck.

Christophe had been no help, disappearing into the ether with his latest fling. They had been on the outs with each other over something stupid. Ethan couldn't even remember what it was now. And in a fit of decisiveness, Ethan packed a few clothes in his satchel, left the few possessions he'd salvaged from his time at school, and got on a train heading west. He crossed the border under his American passport, printed with his mother's maiden name— Ellison— and sought his mysterious uncle in Seattle.

The wake was a private affair overseen by the family Matriarch, in this case his Great Aunt Una. Over a hundred aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins slid quietly into Seattle harbor on their houseboats and sailboats, taking up berth at Pier 13. Ethan knew none of them but they were all Ellisons and they all had a kind word to murmur regarding his mother.

His Uncle Eoin, his mother's eldest brother, provided a strong arm around his back in support and a steely gaze to keep the nosier family members from bothering Ethan too much. After the service, as the sun began to sink, they all alighted in skiffs and rowboats, a tiny flotilla of magical light and flickering lanterns on the frigid waters of the Puget Sound. There, Ethan stepped up to cast the ashes of a woman he didn't know into the dark water, to be swept away into the Pacific, to be carried away around the world.

He had no context for the kind of life this side of his family led. All Ethan had ever known was rules, disappointment and the cold bite of snow against his skin. He didn't know what it was like to ride the waves across a thousand, two thousand miles of open ocean, to dock in exotic ports, to go where the wind bore you. Then, like now, he wasn't sure he wanted to know, to be honest.

Standing in the narrow prow of his uncle's tiny catamaran, smell of salt and ships in his noise, all Ethan was really sure of was that he had no desire to go back to Canada. So he didn't.

The next day, he sent Christophe a postcard with pictures of orcas breaking in the Puget Sound, a note that read _Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore_ and no return address. And until yesterday, around noon, he hadn't heard from Christophe since.

In the intervening years he'd carved out a niche for himself, at first living off the small inheritance he'd received from his mother's will. Later, he'd applied to the police department more on a whim than from any desire to Protect and Serve. He'd lived mostly comfortably, taken lovers when he wanted them. But he hadn't tried to date again; there didn't seem to be a point. Christophe had never been the love of his life, the entire notion of romantic love and monogamous fealty seemed more a fiction than something to waste his time chasing. Ethan lived and worked and didn't spend a great deal of time contemplating the future.

He was content.

Ethan woke up Sunday morning feeling like he'd died and been resurrected. Badly. By someone who knew even less about necromancy than himself. He was naked beneath the twisted sheets, sticky and glued to the bed in uncomfortable places. His head throbbed from dehydration but he also registered the wobbly feeling in his limbs, the lurch of his stomach, that was all hangover.

He groaned piteously and tried to burrow into the bed. It wasn't exactly more comfortable, in fact there was a distinctly lumpy clump of sheets digging into his hip, into the bruises on his hips, but it seemed like a better option than opening his eyes. There was an insistent vibration coming from the floor. This noise, more than anything else yanked Ethan out of the fetal position.

"Fuck!" Ethan rolled out of the bed, literally, and creakily scrambled for his pants. He checked his phone and breathed a little easier when he saw it was just his alarm and not a bevy of text messages from his irate partner. The large numbers on the digital face told him it was 8:09 am.

Ethan lay back on the rough carpet and stared unseeingly up at his ceiling. The last thing he wanted to do was move. He never wanted to move again. He absolutely had to run by Lailana's magic shop before work.

"Why do you do these things to yourself, Ethan? Why do you let _other_ people do these things to you? Christ." He hauled himself to his feet and got washed and dressed. It took more time than usual but then he was out the door and headed in the right direction. There was no sign of Christophe in the apartment and Ethan thought maybe the other man had worked whatever this was out of his system and headed back to Toronto— if only Ethan were so lucky.

Lailana was just unlocking her shop door and she greeted him with a quietly cheerful expression.

"Good morning, Detective. You're up early."

Ethan grimaced and followed her into the dark shop. It was a tiny hole in the wall, lined with overstuffed bookcases and overflowing bins of magical paraphernalia. There was an ancient Chinese herb cabinet in the back, and grimoires on the walls and bones and feathers and crystals every which way you turned. A chaise and two high backed chairs kitty corner to each other formed an intimate nook near the front windows. This was where Lailana's sister Edie did her tarot sessions.

"Would you care for a cup of tea? You look as though you are in need."

"Coffee would be better."

Lailana smirked a little and gestured for him to follow her through the beaded curtain into the back. Part stock room overflow, part employee storage and lounge, there was a tiny Saeco espresso machine plumbed into the counter top near the sink, a not unusual fixture around these parts. Nimble fingers packed the portafilter and pulled tiny demitasse cups out of the cupboard before she pulled the shots. The first double went into the sink. She rinsed the cup and packed a second double. This one pulled in dark sienna and caramel striations, twenty-seven seconds, the perfect ratio of espresso body to crema.

"Sugar? Cream?"

"Both," Ethan murmured softly.

Expertly she ripped open a Sugar in the Raw packet and sprinkled it across the top of the shot and added a measurement of half and half, then handed him the delicate cup and a matching saucer.

"You're a fucking angel."

Lailana smiled and repacked the portafilter, pulled a third double and added cream. She rinsed out the grounds and set everything into a dry rack on the other side of the sink.

"Come along." She led him back into the shop proper and they settled into they settled into the plush seats at the front. Ethan stretched out along the chaise, resting his cup against his sternum, letting the aroma fill his senses.

"I can't stay. I just wanted to pick up a couple supplies. I need to do a locater spell."

Lailana arched a curious eyebrow and carefully stirred her espresso with a demitasse spoon. She drank half of it in one controlled sip and considered him. "I have some things that should do you for that. Work?"

He nodded and took a careful sip of his own drink, shuddering at the almost instantaneous rush. It was a hot balm for his headache.

Lailana swallowed the rest of her shot and stood. "Stay."

Ethan sank into the plush velvet cushions and closed his eyes, savoring the espresso, while he listened to the witch move around her shop, shuffling papers and opening drawers. A few minutes or maybe an hour later she reappeared at his shoulder, tapped once, and held out a package wrapped up in brown butcher paper and tied with hemp.

"I'll send the bill round your apartment this week. The spell is basic but it's always worked reliably for me in the past. You shouldn't have difficulties if you follow the directions very carefully and _don't_ break the tortoise bone." Ethan could tell she was trying to be as forthright as possible without actually insulting him and he appreciated the gesture. He traded his demitasse for the package, thanked her, and left.

#

Pat arrived at the station feeling well rested and encouraged. He'd stayed late at his parents' house the night before, catching up with his sisters and allowing the regular warmth of their company to lull his frayed nerves. He'd gone straight back to his apartment afterwards and slept through the night for the first time in weeks. All of Sunday stretched before him now. The precinct was relatively quiet and he had a good feeling that today they would be able to get a little bit of traction on the case.

By 9 AM he had started circling Ellison's desk in the main squad room expectantly. His partner appeared a quarter after the hour, carrying a wrapped parcel in one hand and an oversized cup of coffee in the other. Dark shadows ringed both his eyes and his hair looked like a lost cause, all honey brown bed head falling sloppily onto his forehead. He stumbled as he made his way towards his desk, eyes downcast and shoulders a little hunched.

He was wearing the same suit as the day before. Pat caught himself grinding his teeth.

"Hey," Ellison said wearily finally noticing his presence. He sat heavily in his desk chair and emptied his hands, took a long drink from the cup. Pat's eyes were fixed on his neck while he swallowed, but tore his gaze away before Ellison could catch him staring.

"Sorry I'm a little late, but I got everything we should need for the locater. My dealer assures me even I can't fuck it up." The other man laughed self-deprecatingly. His movements were a fraction too slow, almost lethargic, like all his rough edges had been scraped off.

"I've known you two days, tell me, do you ever come to work not looking like you've been run over by a truck?"

Ellison opened his mouth, eyes bright and indignant but it snapped shut before he said anything. He visibly put a rein on whatever he wanted to say and took a shuddering breath.

The brown package came apart under his clever hands and Ellison cleared the top of his desk, sweeping stray papers and files and pens into the bottom desk drawer so he could arrange the spell ingredients in a meticulous looking order across the scarred wood. Pat watched him, silently biting his tongue until it bled. He licked away the iron tang and grimaced at his behavior. So much for his good mood, he'd managed to douse that all by himself.

The last thing was a piece of yellow legal paper covered in spiky pencil handwriting. Ellison squinted at the words for a long couple of minutes, drinking his coffee and obviously ignoring Pat's presence.

As he waited, Pat couldn't stop checking his cellphone. IT was supposed to call him when they had the laptop hard drive ready but so far there hadn't been any word. Likewise, his mother had promised the night before to ask around the werewolf blood for any clues that might shed light on the recent uptick in Maccabee and Tremblé tensions.

Watching his partner arrange and then rearrange the spell ingredients (a thimble-sized bowl, a jar of lavender powder, dried flowers, a bone of some sort, a vial of a clear viscous liquid), he felt a little useless.

Ellison began writing across the surface of his desk in chalk, carefully pouring things into chalk shapes and rearranged the solid object a third time. He muttered a few words in what sounded like French, then a few more in something lilting and almost musical. With Pat's eyes burning holes in the side of his head, Ellison consulted the paper, frowning, rubbed his fingers together and drew them through the line of powder. Nothing happened.

Pat had never had a whole lot of contact with mages. A couple had committed murders during his tenure with Homicide, but those guys tended towards the robes and ritual knives crowd. Ellison hid a canvas of Druidic tattoos under tailored suits and jeans, looked a couple weeks past needing a haircut and was peering at his spell notes from about an inch away.

"Something wrong?" he asked finally.

Ellison hummed noncommittally, eyes darting between the mess on his desk and the mess on his hands.

"No," he said.

Maybe Pat was just being cynical but that "no" sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Just let me..." Absently, Ellison wiped his fingers off against his trousers. The movement left a pale arch against the fine dark cotton. He measured out a little more of the dust onto the table and began chanting again. This time entirely in the same halting, sing-song from before.

Pat took a step closer, until there were only inches separating them. He tried to slow his breathing so that it was in time with the mage's, an ear perked, tuned in to the beat of his heart. The whole world slowed down for just an instant while Patrick perched at the edge of a precipice, he could feel it, in his gut. In his heart— beating in time with Ethan's.

A spark leapt from Ellison's finger as it pulled through the lavender dust, igniting the particles where they flew into the air, disturbed. The map— and Pat could see now that it was a map, Seattle laid out in bone and chalk and gristle— ignited and burned cold, sucking the heat out of their breath.

Ellison's voice cracked, the words faltered, the flames grew higher. He stepped into Pat until they were pressed from sternum to groin, his heart thundered loudly in the hushed silence.

Then he blinked, and it was over.

"Holy crap, what just happened?" Ellison whispered, taking deep sucking breaths, like he was drowning.

Pat, tucked in close behind, looked over his shoulder at the desk. It lay in ruin, everything blackened and charred. But the longer he stood there staring, the clearer it became, the way the fire had spiderwebbed in familiar geometric turns.

"Looks like it worked," he murmured, straight into the other man's ear.

Ellison jumped and looked back at him, licking his lips. Their eyes met.

"No shit." Ellison jerked away, putting inches and then feet and then the entirety of his desk between them. Pat felt instantly cold.

"That's good work. I'll go dig out a map, we can figure out where it leads."

"Right, yeah, there should be one lying around here somewhere," Ellison said distantly, patting down his pockets as though he might have one on his person, eyes wide and fixed on the remains of the spell.

Pat reached out and touched him lightly. "Hey, just take a moment. You did good," he repeated. His heart beat a little faster at the pleased grin Ellison shot him before he stumbled towards the washrooms.

Telling himself to get a grip, Pat darted his eyes around the squad room. It took a little bit of digging and a few choice words with the belligerent desk Sargent but he'd managed to procure an old printed map of the city by the time Ellison returned. His partner looked flushed and haggard, his skin pale and the shadows under his eyes actually appearing even darker than before. The collar of his shirt was dark with water, so was his hair. He brightened though when they opened the map and began comparing it to the magical patchwork on his desk.

"Look, here," Ellison tapped a portion of the map, right near Pike's Place Market. "I've been here, hell, I was right around the corner Friday night." He smiled a little and added, "Chased down a pantie snatcher right...here. Funny coincidence."

"What's up there?"

Ellison shrugged. "Bars, a couple restaurants? I don't know, there's some low rent apartments. Maybe a laundromat? Do they have lock boxes in laundromats?"

Pat met his questioning gaze silently and the other man huffed.

"Sarcasm, try cracking a smile sometime." He plucked the key from the little bowl and wiped it off on his untucked shirttail, palming it. "If we go down there I might... I dunno, sense something."

"'Something'?"

"Yeah, _something_ , something more specific than a char mark, which seriously? Cannot believe I just ruined my desk."

"It worked, don't complain. Alright, we'll go check it out, got nothing else to go on."

"Oh wait," Ellison said throwing out a hand, "what about our guy in holding?"

"Your guy made bail at 6 o'clock this morning," their Captain's voice was unmistakable. Jordan Augustas looked impeccable as ever, even dressed down in slim fitted jeans, tank top and leather jacket.

Pat exchanged a quick look with Ellison, both of them straightening their spines unconsciously.

"Got to tell you boys, I do not appreciate getting a call from Martienne Tremblé on a Sunday before the sun has even risen."

Pat winced, he lowered his gaze and Ellison made a quiet, strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"Well, he really _was_ drunk and disorderly." Pat shot his partner a disbelieving look. Jordan looked less than impressed as well.

"I thought I put you on this case to keep from getting calls from irate alphas?" she said pointedly.

"And I think I remember saying something about how that was a bad idea. Bad with a capital B."

"Thought you liked a challenge, a good con, right, Ellison? Buck up already. Now, I'm headed out to salvage the rest of my weekend but call me the next time you decide to harass a top beta from one of the city's wolf packs, understood? Oh, and I expect a full SitRep on my desk tomorrow morning." She pinned Pat with a look, it spoke volumes about what she thought of their work so far, then she spun on her heel and stalked out of the squad room.

"Right, so I guess that's decided," Ellison snarked uncapping a sharpie marker and bending over their maps. He studiously started marking out the path left behind by the fire, folding it away when he was finished with a little bit of triumphant humming. "I love when my boss just takes away my options."

Pat rolled his eyes and shouldered him a little in the direction of the front doors. "Come on, you navigate, I'll drive."

"You always drive. Is that a thing?"

"Yes," he said dully.

"A werewolf thing or a you thing?"

Pat gave his partner an arch look and watched the other man grin and flush a little. The rush of blood did wonders for his haggard complexion.

"Is this where you growl at me about how you and the wolf are one?" his tone was almost... cheeky, distracting.

"We _are_ one."

"Right." Ellison looked away, his face rearranging itself into something bland and professional again.

Pat watched him out of the corner of his eye all the way from the station to the car and as they pulled out onto the street. His nose itched with the scents of soap and shampoo, but underneath that he could make out the distinct notes of sweat and stale coffee lingering in the fibers of his clothes. But what really caught Pat's attention was the cloying, sugar bright whiff of alcohol and spunk. These two smells were considerably easier to pick out away from the station which was literally buzzing with the layered odors of too many men coming and going in an old, cramped space.

Now that he had the chance to really breathe it all in, Pat was well aware of the tired thump of the other man's heart and the way his entire body screamed about his activities from the night before.

He knew the reputation wolves had, not just for their ferocity and short tempers, their territoriality, but for monogamy and conservative judgement. Family, _pack_ , was the most important thing to a wolf, and sometimes people had a hard time understanding just _how_ important. It's why they so rarely mated outside of the blood. Not because they all felt superior— it was much more selfish than that—they just wanted to avoid heartbreak.

Polyamory, casual partners, affairs, all of these things were foreign concepts to werewolves like Patrick.

He'd known Ethan Ellison for about twenty-four hours and in that time the other man had reeked of three different sexual partners. Pat knew he hadn't reacted well to the distraction yesterday and he didn't want to act like a dick about it now but—

"Do you spend all of your free time drinking and fucking?"

Apparently his mouth hadn't gotten the memo.

Ellison glared. "You really can't help butting in where your nose doesn't belong, can you? Is that another wolf thing?" His tone was obvious and deliberately snide.

Pat wanted to growl in frustration and claw off his own face. He didn't understand what it was about the other man that simultaneously set his teeth and every nerve on edge and made him want to reach out and grab him and touch and make him stay put. The back and forth turmoil in his head was making him say shit he never would have to anyone else; stupid, hurtful shit you would say to a guy whose guts you hated but not your partner. It was like he'd lost complete control of his mouth and handed the wheel over to the ugliest parts of his personality. Pat—no, both of them—were acting like the worst kinds of stereotypes.

"You're right," he forced out between tense lips, "that was incredibly out of line. I shouldn't—I don't actually mean to keep picking fights with you." He sighed heavily and hoped Ellison would just accept his words without making it worse between them.

"Then don't do it."

Pat shot him a quick incredulous look, as though to say _really? Fucking really?_ And the other man slammed his head back into his headrest.

"Right, you don't like the wolf comments." He smiled humorlessly. "I don't know how the guys in your department act around you, but the ones downstairs think I'm a joke, you know? Or, as if at any moment I'm about to have a meltdown and smite them all into ruin, shit like that. It's a pain in the ass. And here we are, punching each other in the same wounds. Does that qualify as ironic?"

He shrugged and gripped the steering wheel until his fingers ached. "Probably?"

"We got off on the wrong foot," Ellison offered after a beat. "That's mostly my fault. I have a niche, I've made myself good at what I do, I don't like being shuffled around."

"Bad with change?" Pat asked curiously. It wasn't exactly the response he had been expecting.

"Not when I'm comfortable. Change when it's for the better, well, that's something altogether different, isn't it?" Ellison wrinkled his nose but he smiled a little across the car, conspiratorially, like he was offering Pat the chance to be ironic about it all with him.

Pat considered that. They were making good progress through early morning traffic. Then again this was Sunday. He pulled over on Western Avenue and shifted into neutral.

"Maybe this is a good change."

Ellison seemed surprised by his response, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "Do you really think that?"

Pat shrugged. "Could be, maybe neither of us has really given the situation a chance."

The other man laughed a little, jerky, harsh, "All right. If you promise to lay off all the judgmental looks and dickish comments, so will I. Deal?" He stuck out his hand.

Pat took it. Ellison's skin was cool but his grip was firm.

"Deal. Now tell me where the hell we're supposed to be going."

Ellison grinned and unfolded the map, spreading it haphazardly across the dash. He directed them into a residential aside that ran parallel to the Market's easternmost edge. They had to take several twisting turns down narrow streets lined with old, mismatched houses. The directions from the spell could only be so specific when transposed into such a cramped area.

"This is Magnolia, right?"

Pat hummed in affirmation.

"Are we out of our district?"

"Just about yeah."

"Oh! Hey, there." Ellison rapped his knuckles against the passenger side window and pointed down the next street. "Take a right, here. This is where the spell ends."

Pat signaled and turned, found them a place to park on the street, and they got out of the Camaro. "There's no way to be more specific?"

"Well the burn marks didn't exactly come with their own legend, so no, not really."

They spread out, canvassing the buildings on the street, two blocks in either direction of where they'd left the car. Pat was just about to stick his head into the local bodega on the corner when he heard Ellison make an excited noise. Ears pricked, he jogged back in the other direction.

"What?"

Ellison turned to him and jumped a little, "Did you really hear me from all the way down the street?"

Pat shrugged.

"Handy. It's, well, look." Ellison directed his attention to the middle of the street. It was thankfully quiet this time of day, he didn't have to worry about either of them being run over by a stray car as he chased the other man across the pavement. Ellison was right though, there was a distinctive shimmer bisecting the road, obviously magical in origin unless the Department of Transportation had decided to switch paint colors to pale lavender.

"Is that the spell?"

"I think so." The magician sounded excited.

They followed the shimmery trail as is appeared along the street, beginning to stutter and swerve as they approached the next intersection. It cut across the left lane, jumped the sidewalk and disappeared into the store on the corner.

"Mailboxes Seattle," Pat read the storefront. It was faded, stars and stripes in red and white on a blue field.

"Private PO boxes?"

"Yeah, come on." He led the way into the cool interior. There was an old-fashioned wood counter along the entire back wall, all dark paneling, and behind, slots of sorted mail. On each wall either side of the shop were rows and rows of softly gleaming brass mailboxes. The lavender locator trail wound around the black and white tiled floor, like someone pacing, stopped at the counter, hovered, then zipped straight to the left bank of boxes and disappeared.

"So, our Miss Walker hides the key to her PO box under her desk. That's clandestine."

"Here, let me." Pat took the key from Ellison and started trying it in the mailboxes immediately around where the magic had terminated.

"Do we need a warrant for this?" his partner asked, sounding a little nervous. He slumped against the wall next to Pat, blinking sleepily and watching him test the locks through half lowered eyes.

"Not if the box belongs to our victim."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Now _that_ sounds clandestine."

Ellison chuckled softly.

The key slid into the lock on box 17. Pat made a tiny triumphant sound and turned. There were several days worth of junk mail first, jammed into the front of the small nook, and behind the letters, a box. Ellison helped him clear out the paper, dumping it all in an evidence bag. The box was plain and unassuming, just regular brown cardboard without a return address or even the name of the addressee.

Pat shook it cautiously, the contents made a heavy dull thump and there was the tinkle of many tiny pieces of plastic rattling against each other. The two men exchanged confused looks and closed up the PO box.

"I wonder where all the employees are," Ellison said looking around.

"Enjoying their day off probably. It's Sunday." Pat replied dryly.

"Oh." He blinked. "Jesus, right, I swear this is like the weekend from hell. A really debauched hell but still."

Pat twitched. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to ask him what he meant by that but this wasn't the time and they'd agreed not to give one another grief. Instead, he pulled out his keys and ran the teeth against the tape on the box. He could see Ellison wince out of the corner of his eye.

The box came apart relatively easily, disgorging a gallon size plastic bag full of—

"Do you...?"

"Not a clue," Ellison interrupted, shaking his head and sticking his nose close to the bag. "USB drives? I mean, they sort of look like them, don't they?"

Pat frowned. "We need IT for this."

"Obviously." The other man rolled his eyes. "You get to take it to them this time, though. I'm afraid of what Lauren will do to me if I break any of her toys."

"Fine," he huffed. "Let's go, there's nothing else we can find out here. We'll call tomorrow and see who this box is registered to."

Ellison grinned, the expression lighting up his face, and took the evidence bags without protesting too much as they headed back for the car.

## **CHAPTER EIGHT**

##

When they got back to the station, Clanahan ran the bag of mysterious microchips downstairs to IT and checked in with them. They told him Matilde's security was virtually nonexistent on both devices and that their contents had been as boring as the security passwords.

He was given a printout with the names and numbers of all her contacts, ingoing and outgoing calls and the laptop and cellphone in their plastic evidence baggies. Lauren was still working the desk and she looked marginally more interested in the new chips. She scoffed at his suggestion that they were thumb drives and promised to look into them later that day.

The two detectives spent the rest of the morning running numbers from the phone and putting first and last names to the most recent and frequent callers.

At noon, Ethan insisted they go out and get food, pub food at that. He ate a ridiculous amount of shaved curly fries and ignored Clanahan's face when he got a second order of greasy, battered and fried white fish. Ethan felt the other detective had little room to complain—considering the way he plowed through his corned beef and sauerkraut—and steadfastly ignored the looks.

The afternoon was spent compiling witness statements taken at the original scene by the patrol officers who had canvassed the area and finishing up the phone number cross check. The only interesting thing they managed to turn up was what appeared to be the number for a burner phone on Matilde's ingoing and outgoing call list. Clanahan sent the number off to IT and asked them to see what they could find out about it.

By 6 PM the well was running dry and Clanahan called a halt to the day. Ethan was privately relieved. He felt exhausted, both from the spell that morning but even more so from the evening before. Despite his nap yesterday, he really hadn't had much restful downtime in the past four days. Besides that, it had frankly been a while since he used so much magic and he was starting to feel it as an ache in his fingertips.

They parted ways with an agreement to start again bright and early the next day. Ethan drove himself home, lost in thought about the case, mentally compiling a list of things they would need to do on Monday when people were at their offices. He trudged up the steps to his apartment, fumbled his way inside.

Silence greeted him.

"Chris?"

Then there was a crash. Ethan dropped his keys and jacket in the hall and hurried into the living room. He found Christophe struggling to hold up a rapidly collapsing bookshelf.

"What the hell?"

"Sorry darling, I was just trying to find a CD."

He pushed the other mage aside and took over bracing one side of the shelf.

"These are DVDs."

"Yes, well, I wasn't actually looking at this shelf. It's just the one that decided to collapse on me."

"Sorry."

Christophe sighed and pushed up on his end.

"I'll survive. Now, shall we...?"

"Oh yeah, here, just push it back up into the tracks."

Together they managed to get the piece of faux finished particle board back in its support frame without causing an avalanche. Ethan ran a finger across the glossy spines. He shivered when Christophe leaned close against his back and ran a slow, possessive hand across his side.

"What are you doing?"

Christophe planted a soft kiss against his neck, the nape of neck, the shell of his ear.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I've had a long day." Ethan reached back and brushed one of his hands off.

"Even better reason."

Not taking no for an answer, Christophe caught his impatient hand and tugged Ethan towards the bedroom. He let the other man sweep him along, peel of his clothes and settle him back into the mused covers on his bed.

"This feels familiar."

Christophe straddled his hips on the bed and smirked.

"You look good on your back." Then he trailed a slow, questing hand from Ethan's neck, down across his chest to his hip where his tattoo peaked out across pale skin. He sat up a little and pulled on Ethan's hip, urging him over onto his front.

"Definitely familiar."

"But this isn't," the other man said. His hands spread out across the tattoo.

Fingers flexed and traveled the loops and swirls of ink. Ethan shuddered under the attention. He felt arousal coil in his gut, blood redirecting to his dick without any input from Ethan. A low, almost imperceptibly ionic displacement sizzled across his skin. It followed Christophe's fingers, followed the branches of the tree, before it dipped down just barely below the subcutaneous layer.

It lit up Ethan's nerves. A low, sweet trickle of raw magic straight into his body. Like the first hit of coffee in the morning. Like nicotine from a cigarette when you've spent the last twelve months stuck on the patch.

His head felt floaty.

"What are yo—"

"Shh," Christophe shushed him and dug his fingers into the muscle. Ethan groaned and melted into the bed. In the end, he couldn't be expected to hold out against a magical and physical massage like this. Not after so long feeling cold and alone.

#

Monday morning Ethan stopped and bought coffee for both of them before he went into the office. He wasn't sure if his partner was a coffee drinker—he didn't partake of the office sludge—but Ethan hoped it would be accepted in the spirit was given. Besides that, he couldn't imagine anyone able to resist hot, caramel flavored goodness at eight in the morning. No one, not even werewolves, could say no to frothy latte goodness.

Like every other day since they'd met, Clanahan had beaten him to the office. Ethan found the other detective hunched over his desk with a yellow Dex cracked open in front of him. He set the second coffee cup down on top of the yellow pages and smirked at Clanahan's confused expression.

"What, you break the inter-department database?"

"I found it under your desk yesterday."

"You stole _my_ Dex? Jerk, you better be planning to give that back. Unlike some people, I really do need it."

"What's this?" Clanahan jerked his chin at the cup.

"Coffee."

The wolf rolled his eyes and growled.

"Coffee for you? You're supposed to drink it. It's delicious," Ethan sing-songed and pointedly took a sip from his cup. "Go on, try it, I swear it's not poisoned."

Clanahan rolled his eyes, but took the cup and sipped it—if suspiciously.

"So where are we?" Ethan asked, propping himself up on Clanahan's desk. The phone book was open to a listing for mail and shipping providers.

"Going to call Mailboxes Seattle, find out who Box 17 belongs to."

"Fun," Ethan said unenthusiastically. He hopped off the desk when Clanahan started making impatient noises and went looking for a spare chair while the other man dialed. He didn't feel altogether comfortable sitting in the empty desk across from the other detective. Janice Lynch had, the day before, sure, but she also put his every nerve on edge, and she seemed oddly personable with Clanahan. It didn't take a genius to recognize who it had belonged to before: Clanahan's last partner, the late Detective Sloan.

Ethan never met Sloan personally but his name had been bandied about the office after his unfortunate death. Rumors concerning his partnership with Major Crimes's pet wolf had raged like a wildfire through Central California in July. Sloan's empty desk sat there, an open wound, and Ethan felt distinctly unwilling to prod it any more than necessary.

"Yes, hello, my name is Detective Patrick Clanahan. I'm calling with regards to a PO box on your premises. We just wanted to check a registration—right, Box 17, could you tell me whose name it's rented under?" Clanahan's entire demeanor shifted, face polite, tone personable. There wasn't a hint of a growl or a scowl or the disapproval Ethan felt almost intimately familiar with.

"M. Walker? Alright, yes, thanks you." He disconnected the call.

Ethan waited for a guy in arson to leave his desk then stole his chair, sitting in it quickly and rolling across the squad room.

"It's in our victim's name?" He asked. Clanahan nodded, making a note on his computer screen. "So, what we need to do is figure out who sent her that package."

"It could be completely unrelated."

Ethan wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. "She taped the key to the bottom of her desk. How is that not suspicious? Do you go around doing shit like that? 'Cause I certainly don't."

Clanahan shrugged and sat back; his chair creaked under his broad, muscled weight. "People keep all sorts of secrets that don't all end up killing them."

"Maybe, but at the very least we can rule out whether or not she mailed it to herself. That would help us figure out how worried she might have been about the box's contents, right? You checked out her apartment. I don't suppose you found anything with writing on it, like a diary or a notebook?"

"No," Clanahan admitted, "but it might be worth going back for a second sweep. The place was pretty empty—furniture, clothes, food, postcards—that's about it."

"Postcards?"

Clanahan shrugged. "I don't know, she had them at her office too."

"Huh, well, that aside—"

"It's not a burner phone," Lauren Beck interrupted, making Ethan jump. Today she was wearing ripped jeans, bright red converse and an Avengers T-shirt, her hair a curled mess piled on top of her head.

"What?" Clanahan asked, subtly kicking him in the shin. Ethan sputtered and glared but went quiet under Beck's appraising expression.

She held out a piece of printer paper. "I made you a _hard copy_ , I hope you both appreciate that." Ethan took it from her. "The phone number we couldn't get a name off of, labeled it a burner phone but it isn't, not exactly. It is registered, but it's a temporary registration, I think it's on its second owner? Oh, and the name's a fake."

"So what does that mean for our case?"

Lauren rolled her eyes. "I'm not the detective, don't ask me."

"Can we track it?"

"Get a warrant and I can try. No guarantees though, whoever has it will need to make a call while we're monitoring, but if they do, yeah, I can probably put you within a block of its location."

"What about the, uh, the other—"

"GPS's," she pulled the bag of chips as if from thin air and dropped them in Ethan's lap then grimaced, grabbed them back and handed them to Clanahan. Ethan smiled sheepishly, Lauren did not return the gesture. "Very basic models but surprisingly heavy duty."

"So, built to withstand abuse?"

"Definitely. And not built to do much more than ping out a location periodically. Zero data storage in the chips themselves. They're all PetChIp manufacture too."

"That's not a coincidence," Ethan directed at Clanahan. The other man nodded contemplatively.

Lauren crossed her arms and shifted, expression bored.

"Got anything else for me?"

"We'll get you that warrant for the phone."

"Awesome," she said, her tone flat. "You know where to find my hole in the ground."

"So what's Miss Walker doing with a bunch of company GPS's in her private PO Box?" Ethan mused.

"Let's go ask," Clanahan said, standing and grabbing his keys.

#

Glenn Derriger was not in his office when they arrived at PetChIp but a quick glance around the office revealed Niall Anderson. He gestured for Ellison to follow him.

"Hello Niall, remember me?"

The younger man nodded. "Detective! Yes, of course." His eyes darted between the two of them, looking Ellison up and down a couple times before he swallowed and focused on Pat.

"This is my partner, Detective Ellison."

"Oh! Okay, nice to meet you." They shook hands, Ellison smiling encouragingly. "Has there been a breakthrough in the—the case?"

Pat exchanged a look with his partner. "We're not entirely sure, we were hoping you could help us with something."

"Yeah, sure, anything."

Pat signed the evidence bag, extracted the ziplock they now knew was full of GPS trackers and offered it to Anderson, asking, "Do you know what these are?"

The man's forehead wrinkled in consternation. He took the bag though and held it up to the light. "Looks like our chips."

"That's right, what can you tell us about them?"

"There's... a lot of them?" Anderson looked and sounded confused. "Where did you get all of these?"

"We can't really divulge that information," Ellison answered. "Is there any way to tell us who they belong to? Like, what pets they went into?"

"Yeah I can do that, as long as the serial numbers are intact. And assuming they're used. Do you mind?" He made a motion to open the bag but waited for Pat's nod before he broke the seal.

Pat was hit by the mingled scents of several dozen different dogs. The concentrated, salty tang of mingled blood cut through the air. He sneezed.

Ellison murmured a distracted _bless you_ but his concentration was on Anderson as the other man pulled out a GPS chip and powered up his computer. He leaned in over the tech guy's shoulder, watching him like a hawk until the computer monitor started to waver and fizz, the picture jumping. Ellison sighed and took a couple steps back. He finally seemed to notice Pat's discomfort.

"What?"

He shook his head. Ellison sidled into his personal space, standing so that his ear was positioned just in front of Pat's mouth. He took in a deep breath, breathing in the magician's familiar scent. Pat couldn't put it into words, but for the first time since they'd met, Ellison smelled relaxed, rather than sweaty and stressed, soap and the faintest trace of aftershave and something purely... _Ethan_.

Speaking so that Ellison was the only one who could catch his words, he said, "There's blood all over those chips."

His partner's skin twitched, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. "Human?"

He shook his head a little.

"These are all registered, large dogs," Anderson broke in, gesturing at the dozen chips on his desk. "I'll have to go through the rest and double check those."

"Do it, compile a list."

Anderson hesitated, his eyes darting to Derriger's dark office. "That's confidential information. I don't think I can just release it to you." His pupils remained steady and Pat couldn't detect any obvious signs of subterfuge.

"Do it anyways, we'll come back with a warrant."

The younger man nodded.

Frowning, Ellison glanced around at the other cubicles. "You don't know anything about why Matilde would have these in her possession? Could it be something for work?"

Anderson shook his head in denial. "Not that I know of. We're certainly not supposed to have used chips. They're sent directly back to the warehouse."

Ellison didn't look satisfied with that answer and he wandered into Matilde's cubicle without having to be directed. Pat and Anderson watched him run a light touch across the back of her chair, her keyboard, stop and stare at the pin-board on the back wall. He leaned in and peered at the postcard collage, expression distant.

"Thanks for this," Pat told Anderson, directing his attention back towards his computer. "How long do you think it will take you to sift through all of those?"

Anderson winced. "I still have to do my regular work. At least a day? Probably two. Can I just call you when I'm done?"

Pat sighed to himself and nodded reluctantly. "It's important you get us the information as quickly as possible. I'll have the precinct fax over a release for the personal information by this evening."

"Okay," he said, "I'll try to get this to you by then. Do you think Matty could have been killed over these?" he waved a hand at the bag.

Pat shrugged and frowned at Ellison. "I'm not sure but we have to look into every possibility."

"Of course."

He left Anderson tapping at his computer and snagged Ellison's sweater sleeve. It had rained that morning, temperature cool and the magician had foregone a suit in favor of a striped white button down and a soft, slate grey cashmere sweater. He'd dressed the outfit up with a black striped tie. His hair was brushed for once, though it only did so much to tame where it was growing out into curls.

Ellison made a soft, questioning noise and pulled away from Matilde's picture collection.

"See something?"

Ellison wouldn't meet his eyes, he rubbed a hand against his breastbone, his voice soft and a little wandering. "Just regret."

"What?"

"Everything feels like regret. Are we done here?"

Pat firmed up his grip on his partner's arm and directed them out of the office, nodding goodbye to Anderson.

"Yeah, come on, you're starting to look peaky."

Ellison laughed softly, letting himself be directed outside. "'Peaky' did you say, mother?"

Pat snorted and shoved him into the Camaro.

"Shut up. I'm picking lunch today."

"It's barely 10," Ellison protested, resting his forehead against the passenger window.

"Which is why we're stopping back at the office first. Gotta report to the Captain, file for a warrant, then lunch."

"So bossy," Ellison muttered half-heartedly.

## **CHAPTER NINE**

##

"Why are we eating here again? I thought you had good taste in food."

"I do have good taste in food!" Ethan protested, vigorously rubbing his chopsticks together to remove any potential splinters.

"No, you really don't."

"It's sushi! Who doesn't like sushi?"

"Lot's of people," Clanahan stated. He peered suspiciously at the conveyor belt trundling along the side of their booth.

"You're thirty seconds away from making a cat food joke aren't you?" Ethan squinted at the werewolf.

"No," Clanahan muttered. "I feel mislead."

"How could I possibly mislead you? We've had lunch together like twice since I've known you." He paused, considered. "And I had fish both times!"

"You had surf and turf and fries, it's not the same thing!"

"Yeah, well, I had a hangover. People eat silly things like grease when they have hangovers."

Clanahan grimaced at him and buried his nose in the menu on their table.

"You can't just eat red meat. A little variety is the spice of life."

"You _would_ consider _eel_ the spice of life."

Ethan stifled his laugh, grabbed the second set of chopsticks and threw them at the werewolf's head. Plates began gliding past their seats and he perked up, keeping a careful eye out for Seattle rolls, also snagging a couple California for Clanahan and pushing them across the table to him.

He grabbed a second china bowl, poured a measure of soy sauce and added a small amount of wasabi, stirring a little and sticking it on Clanahan's side of the booth. His partner sniffed it, wrinkling his nose and sneezing. He clumsily picked up the chopsticks and met Ethan's amused eyes with a dark glare.

"Hey look at that, you know how to hold them. I'm actually a little impressed."

"I eat take out."

Ethan laughed. "Oh my god, you are a real boy." He grinned at Clanahan and gestured at the little half plate of rolls. "Go on, nothing weird I promise, just imitation crab. Sort of bland but I figured I'd start you off easy."

A bright pink roll went by and he snatched the tuna off the conveyor, greedy and distracted. After a pause, he saw Clanahan dip one of his own rolls into the soy sauce and tentatively begin eating.

Ethan was relieved by the chance to take a break from all the heavy food and alcohol he'd been consuming lately. Yesterday, Clanahan had insisted on a steak joint for lunch, devouring a rack of ribs in very little time. The man was a carnivore.

They ate in silence for several minutes, Ethan keeping up a steady stream of plates rotating around their booth, splitting a few more exotic choices with Clanahan as he relaxed into the rhythm of it. He loved this place, nothing more than a hole in the wall, ten booths and a sushi-go-round with one chef making rolls and his daughter topping off drinks.

Ethan sat back after a dozen plates and slumped into his seat with a soft, satisfied groan. Clanahan was just mopping up the last of the soy sauce in Ethan's own dish and chewing noisily around what was, in fact, an eel roll or unagi maki.

"You want dessert? They have good Kakigōri."

The werewolf wiped his mouth clean on a handful of napkins and shrugged. "I have no idea what that is."

"Sort of a snow cone, only made with milk, and better."

Clanahan made a face at him and shook his head. "I'm good."

Ethan shrugged. "Your loss. Here let me have the plates. I'll—" he reached to grab the small mountain of colorful plates on their table, standing without looking and running smack into the waitress as she walked by with a tokkuri flask full of sake. They collided with a crash and the tepid liquid exploded between them, soaking through the dark material of Ethan's sweater. He froze in shock, the sake flask hung suspended a foot away from shattering on the tiled floor.

The waitress gasped and started babbling out apologies which he waved away.

"Jesus, no, that was totally my fault. I wasn't looking where I was standing. It's okay, I'm okay."

Not daring to blink, barely daring to breath, he bent down and snatched the ceramic container and handed it to the shocked young woman.

"Put this on our tab, seriously, I am so sorry."

She started to protest but Ethan just waved Clanahan away, grabbed their sushi plates and herded the waitress over to the register. She protested but he made her take his credit card and refused to budge until she'd charged him for the lost revenue.

Clanahan met him at the door, his eyes a heavy weight sweeping Ethan from head to toe.

"You all right?"

"Yeah, no it's—well it's unpleasant and kind of cold but at least they hadn't ordered it heated." He winced and sniffed his sweater, sighing. "I smell like a brewery though."

They stepped outside and he was glad that Clanahan kept any smart remarks to himself. Ethan stripped out of his sweater and wrung it out over the cement. It did little good; the liquid had soaked right through the cashmere and into his button-down.

"You can't go back into the station looking like that," Clanahan said, a smirk twitching around the corners of his mouth.

Ethan huffed and slumped down into the passenger's seat. "No shit. I don't even have a spare change of clothes in my locker anymore. You mind running by my apartment?"

"Sure."

They weren't too far away from Ethan's neighborhood but still he sat ramrod straight in his seat, trying not to drip all over his partner's upholstery. Clanahan parked them on the street outside.

"You can come up if you want. It's going to take a couple minutes. I should probably shower while I'm at it. All I need is to run into Augustus smelling like the bad end of a bender."

Clanahan snorted softly and followed him upstairs. Ethan wasn't thinking as he blew through the unlocked door and made a beeline for the bathroom. He heard Clanahan shut the door and take a few slow steps inside, though it sounded like he was hovering in the entrance area.

"Make yourself comfortable! I'll try to be quick." Ethan slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and started stripping out of his ruined clothes.

#

Pat followed a couple paces behind his partner, through the dimly lit walk-up and into his apartment. His keen ears noted the quiet sounds of a mostly empty building. There was someone pacing upstairs but otherwise everything seemed—He stopped short in Ellison's living room and cocked his head, there was a third heartbeat in the apartment. He breathed in deeply, noting the clean electric scent he had started to associate with Ethan and intertwined with it, a thread of spice, darker, muskier and crackling with ozone.

Alert, Pat prowled silently into Ellison's kitchen, looking for the intruder, if that's what he could call the stranger.

He found a tall, slender man slouched artfully against the kitchen sink, smoking a cigarette out the open window and reading a page out of the newspaper. The rest of the pages littered the floor around his feet, which were long, fine boned and bare, his toes flexing slowly against the blue and yellow tile. He looked oblivious to their arrival, knocking ash into a potted plant on the window sill—not that it mattered, the terra cotta pot contained nothing so much as a shriveled bit of stumpy vegetation.

Pat observed him silently, hovering in the shadowed archway between the two rooms and regulating his breathing. He trained every sense on gathering information about the other man, ears tuning into the slow, easy thrum of his heart, nose prickling at the smell of semen—the man's and what was obviously Ethan's—sweat, tea and ash.

"Did you plan on staring at me until Ethan gets out of the washroom or would you care to introduce yourself?"

The man's voice cut the silence, his eyes never flickering away from the paper. He ashed the cigarette and stuck it between his lips, flipping the page. A breeze through the window ruffled the collar of his housecoat.

Caught, Pat eased into the kitchen proper.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, ah, manners, I asked you first." He looked completely at ease. It made a hot flush churn in Pat's gut.

"Detective Clanahan, I'm Ethan's—"

"Oh yes, the _partner_."

Pat didn't appreciate the mocking emphasis he seemed to put on the word "partner."

"Your turn."

Finally the stranger looked up, all angular features, short dark hair and cool grey eyes. He had a plush, pink mouth surrounded by a carefully trimmed, barely there goatee. The corners of his mouth pulled up in the slightest hint of a smile.

"Christophe. I'm a friend. An old, very close friend."

"You're living here." It wasn't a question.

"More of an extended vacation, but yes, for the moment."

The shower in the bathroom cut off, Pat hadn't even noticed it. He heard the bathroom door bang open and Ethan padding around in the back of the apartment. He locked gazes with _Christophe_ and schooled his face into a perfectly neutral expression. There was something about this guy, making every instinct and the hair on his arms stand up. He had magic in the curl of his fingers around the cigarette and the calculating slant of his eye.

Ethan stumbled out, wearing a fresh shirt, dark blue this time, and buttoning up a black striped vest over it. He'd salvaged his tie, which was just a little damp around the tip where he'd cleaned it off in the bathroom sink.

"Hey, you ready to..." He trailed off at the sight of Christophe, darting a quick look between them. Pat watched Ellison catch himself, shaking off whatever had given him pause, and stomp across the kitchen right into Christophe's space, snatching the cigarette out of his hand. "What part of _no smoking_ did you not understand?"

The other man smirked into his partner's face, running a licentious tongue across his straight, white teeth. "Spoilsport," he purred, tucking his face into the space between Ellison's neck and jaw. His eyes darted up and met Pat's as he dropped a soft kiss on the pale skin above his collar.

Pat refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Ellison pulled away soon enough on his own, pushing Christophe's head away and tossing the cigarette in the sink. "Don't make my apartment smell any shittier while I'm out for fuck's sake or I swear I will kick your ass."

"Promise?"

Ellison rolled his eyes and grabbed Pat's sleeve, dragging him out of the apartment with loud, pointed grumbling projected over his shoulder. Pat caught the sound of Christophe's soft laughter. It followed them all the way down the stairs.

He felt on edge as they emerged into the midday sunshine, the weather having taken a short break from the looming rain clouds hanging over them all morning. Ellison turned his face up to the sky with an appreciative sigh. He didn't appear visibly bothered by the exchange in the kitchen. Pat wasn't sure why it upset him; it wasn't his apartment; it wasn't his unruly houseguest.

Not that the mysterious Christophe had been especially unruly. On the sliding scale of shit they tended to encounter in the course of their day-to-day lives, smoking in the kitchen hardly even made the bottom of the list. There was just something about the other man, the tilt of his hip and the calculating slant of his eyes as they'd met Pat's, unwavering. The man definitely gave a good impression: the epitome of stone cold and unflappable.

It wasn't that Pat felt insecure or even threatened. It wasn't exactly his place to feel either of those, especially the latter; he'd known Ellison for less than a week, after all. It was just the way Christophe had made the wolf under his breastbone sit and prick its ears, straining every sense, watching every twitch and movement. The way the wolf had ground his teeth and his body on high alert, a hair's breadth away from _danger, Will Robinson, danger_. The man was a threat, somehow, in some way he couldn't quite quantify yet.

Not to mention the casual way he'd maneuvered inside Ethan's personal space like he _owned it, like he had a right to it or som—_

Pat shook himself, boxed up the train of his thoughts and shoved it back into the corner of his mind. Ellison's house guests were absolutely none of his business and it would serve him well to remember that. He took a deep breath and focused on the road. The streets were heavy with lunch time traffic and pedestrians. All he needed was to be distracted long enough to run someone over in a crosswalk on a red light.

On the other side of the car, Ellison fidgeted with the fastenings on his shirt sleeves, straightening the cuffs and twisting the cufflinks into and out of position. They glinted, an understated matte silver in the sunlight through his window, catching Pat's attention out of the corner of his eye.

His mouth started talking without consulting his brain, again. It seemed to be happening a lot around his new partner. "So, Christophe..."

Ellison didn't look at him, just stared out the car window and the high rises and mismatched architecture flashing by.

"Christophe," Ellison repeated.

"How long have you been living together?" Pat's mouth had been going for casual but his brain told him they'd fallen short.

"We aren't."

His mouth opened to refute that, not that he was going to believe everything—or anything—Christophe had said, but he couldn't deny his nose and his nose had picked up the other man's scent throughout the common living spaces of the apartment. He hadn't been there for a long time maybe, but there was a familiarity about his movements around the kitchen, the way his smell layered with Ellison's own, that spoke of familiarity. He wasn't a one night stand who "forgot" to leave the next day or the day after that.

A not inconsiderable part of Patrick wanted to run his head into a wall and his body under an icy cold shower. It would be worth it if he could manage to get control of his thoughts and keep them from rabbiting around his partner and his partner's... well, _partners_.

Before he could say anything else and possibly antagonize Ellison like he'd promised not to, his phone rang, vibrating across the dashboard. Ellison reached out and stopped it, checked the screen and said, "It's a station number."

"Answer it."

"Hello? Yes, this is Detective Ellison, go ahead..." He listened for a couple minutes, humming absently and wincing when they went under a bridge and the phone spat static into his ear. He covered the receiver finally and said to Pat, "It's Beck. She says they got a hit on the cellphone."

"Matilde's?"

"Oh, no, uh the one that kept calling her. The one under the false name. She says you promised her a warrant so that they could keep an eye on it for activity."

"Shit."

"Doesn't matter." He waved away Pat's wince. "She did it anyway—what? Oh, funny Beck, well whatever gets you off I guess. _I'm_ certainly not going to judge. Hey! That's totally unprofessional, I outrank you. I do too. Okay, okay, never mind! Here, Patrick, turn here. We need to get on I-5. We need to go south. She's got an address for us."

Patrick shivered.

Ellison repeated the address aloud and punched it into the onboard GPS, letting it squawk directions at Pat as he tried to cut through the other drivers traveling south, back to their offices. He laughed into the phone at something Beck said and made protesting noises before he hung up and set the phone back on the dash between them.

It took them a solid forty-five to get to the address and a bored Ethan Ellison had spent the last half of it squirming in his seat and tapping his slender fingers against the passenger side door in inconsistent patterns, with no discernible rhythm. Pat couldn't decide if it was actually a rage-inducing annoyance or an almost welcome distraction from the monotony of taillights.

"I really don't understand your obsession with driving us everywhere. Driving in this city fucking sucks," Ellison mused, slamming his car door.

Pat shrugged, answered without thinking, "Habit, Adam only got his license because it was a requirement for the force."

Ellison froze in the corner of his eye though it took him a minute to runback what he'd said. Pat tried to shrug it off. He continued, "At least it's not Tacoma," but the sarcasm fell flat. He felt hyper aware of Ellison trying to stare at him without actually staring.

He ignored the awkward thread of tension, feeling stupid—who brought up their _dead partner_ in casual conversation?—and marched up the front lawn of the little house.

"What do we know?"

Ellison stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and followed him, speaking quietly, "House is registered to an Ilan Maccabee. Records say he's twenty-nine, spotty employment record and an incomplete degree from the UW. Do you know him?"

Pat shook his head. "Not personally. The Maccabees don't socialize a lot with the rest of us." Not to mention that he himself rarely had the time or inclination to socialize with other members of the blood either. His mind caught on the name though and he paused before knocking. "I think he may be the alpha's nephew though."

Ethan smirked humorlessly, "Excellent." Then he knocked loudly.

Pat put his hearing on high alert, trying to tune into every sound within the house. It was unfortunately quiet, not a heartbeat or a breath or a creak of floorboards under feet.

"I don't think anyone's home."

His partner hammered on the door a few times in the barest imitation of a civil knock, glaring at the door.

"Why would he have a phone registered under a false name, it's not like he was cheating, neither of them is married."

"There's a lot of reasons why someone might keep a second phone."

"Yeah, sure, but you can't deny that's the _most_ important reason for you folks," Ellison said, shooting him a quick look like he was daring Pat to deny it. He just shrugged and leaned on the doorbell; it didn't hurt to be thorough.

"We're going to have to come back later."

"What if he's already fled the city?"

Pat gave him a disbelieving look. "You don't think that's a little dramatic?"

Ellison shrugged and hopped off the tiny front porch. "I don't know, it's what happens on _NCIS_." He froze and made a contemplative noise. "What if they were dating, would that be enough reason to hide?"

"Hide from what?"

"His alpha." Ellison made a sharp slashing motion with his hand to forestall a reply and continued, "No, think about it—I know you all put on a good public front, and hell, forty percent of the time I may even buy into it like the rest of the norms in this city, but you can't deny that there's some blood purity shit going on among the packs. Not Harry Potter levels of blood purity, but you don't let humans marry into the family all that often."

The truth was he _did_ want to deny it, argue that it wasn't anything to do about blood or magic but... While that might be true for his own family, the McClanahan pack, he couldn't deny that there was a grain of truth in what Ellison said for other members of the blood. He glanced back at the quiet, innocuous house. They had no proof, nothing but a string of conjecture pulled, quite literally, out of Ellison's imagination, but it didn't sound like the farthest fetched idea they could have come up.

He couldn't imagine Aaron Maccabee being very pleased to find out one of his nephews carrying on a relationship with a very average, ordinary human.

"We can't run on wild conjecture. And you _definitely_ cannot go around suggesting that one of the most powerful Alphas in the city murdered someone." He gave Ellison a serious look. The other man huffed loudly and threw up his hands.

"I'm just trying to think of—"

"No, you don't like Aaron Maccabee and I'm not saying you don't have your reasons, though frankly I'm not sure you do—"

"Now hold on a second—"

"You walked into his office and picked a fight with the man, Ethan!" Pat exclaimed, exasperated. Ellison deflated a little, scowling. "We have nothing to support or even suggest your theory. So, before you go running off making up stories and pissing off Jordan more than we have already, let's just go back to the station and look at the facts of the case. We'll try Ilan Maccabee's other listed number and run down where he's working and we will _talk to him_ before we go making accusations."

Ellison slouched against the side of the car and considered Pat with a long look. "That sounds like a lot of 'we's.'"

Pat shrugged. He spun his keys around his finger lazily. He met Ellison's eyes, held them. He felt a warm flush through his skin beneath that look, a sort of satisfaction that spread from beneath his breastbone across his chest, like someone had flipped a switch in his head. He took another step closer, another, the toes of their shoes just barely touched: the shined tips of his motorcycle boots abutting the scuffed white rubber of Ethan's converse. Ellison looked up at him through his dark brown eyelashes, his body arching back into the hard body of the Camaro.

The wolf in the back of his head was suspiciously silent. It was like every function of his body froze, suspended and tensed, ready for—action/reaction. Pat barely dared breath. He could smell Ethan all around him, that tang of electricity in the back of his throat and the bright notes of something citrusy and clean (his soap). He had the overwhelming urge to bury his face in the soft curve of Ethan's neck, reclaim the territory where Christophe had—

Pat jerked away violently. He stumbled a step away, tripped a little over the sidewalk curb and halted. Ethan—Ellison's eyes widened fractionally, his body straightening, all the relaxation in his pose falling away between one breath and another. His face shuttered a little and he looked away. Pat scrubbed a nervous hand across his mouth and tried to reorder his thoughts. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened but he knew it wasn't... it hadn't... It was completely unprofessional, it was—

He put his body into motion by rote, keys in the door locks, into the ignition, waiting for Ellison to take a cautious seat next to him and click his seatbelt. Neither of them dared look at the other. Pat sternly told his body to calm down, slowing his breathing until it was something approaching its steady baseline.

A few minutes passed in silence, then Ellison pulled his phone out of his pocket and started dialing. He spoke softly. Pat could just hear Lauren Beck on the other end of the line, her low, cutting tones chiding and mocking Ethan as he calmly requested a background check on Ilan Maccabee. He stayed on the phone until they reached the station.

## **CHAPTER TEN**

##

They hadn't really spoken to each other after the incident outside Ilan Maccabee's house. Ethan had tried to follow Clanahan's lead, avoiding eye contact, exchanging the barest minimum of words, all of it beautifully, painfully professional. Not that he quite knew the proper response to whatever... _that_ had been. For a second, he'd thought Clanahan had intended to...

"To what Ethan, lay one on you? That guy? Christ. Get a hold of yourself," Ethan muttered to himself, violently rummaging through his sock drawer in search of a clean, mostly unwrinkled, tie. "God damn it!"

"Problems?" Christophe slouched casually in the doorway, watching him, an amused curl to his lips. Ethan might have called it hovering, only Christophe did not _do_ hovering, it was far too undignified a habit for Christophe Granger.

"Don't even start with me right now."

"You know, you've been in a rather unpleasant mood ever since you came home last night. Don't tell me that delightful detective of yours did anything to hurt your feelings."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Don't be like that, darling."

Ethan slammed his dresser drawer closed, something in the back made a sort of crunch and splintering sound. He was breathing a little unsteadily.

"I'm serious, Christophe, do me a favor, give me a break and go fuck yourself." Behind him, the other man made a frustrated noise. Ethan could hear him moving away down the hall; for Christophe, it was practically stomping. The window in the kitchen went up on its track with a bang.

"Don't break my apartment, you asshole," Ethan hollered at him. He kicked over the pile of dirty laundry in his room and a rumpled maroon colored tie flopped out. Snorting, he flung it over his head and jerkily began tying it into a half-windsor. A thought struck him, "And don't you _dare_ start smoking again!"

"Your neighbors do it!" Christophe hollered back belligerently.

"I don't care!" He adjusted the tie into position at the base of his throat and muttered, "The last thing I need is another second hand nicotine addiction."

"You used to be a lot more fun."

"I used to be nineteen too. Times change."

"Don't say that."

Ethan cast him an arch look. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You talk like you're old and dead already. You're twenty-eight, for fucks sake."

He froze, turned slowly, trying to watch the tone of his voice. "Chris?" The other man had reappeared in the doorway and was staring sort of longingly at the unlit fag in his hand. Ethan made himself continue, "This isn't a mid-life crisis, is it?"

Christophe's eyes widened and he looked up at Ethan in horror, his face pale, "You—take—I'm not having a fucking mid-life crisis, you asshole!" He turned, glaring at Ethan and the carpet and at his lighter and stomped back into the kitchen. "You deserve second hand cancer for that, you twat."

He didn't have time to chase Christophe down and continue the argument; he was running late already and his phone was buzzing across the night table.

"The Captain wants to talk to us." A pause, then, "You better be on your way here."

Ethan sighed to himself. "I will be there as soon as humanly possible."

Clanahan grunted and hung up. Ethan cursed and grabbed his keys. Christophe was back in his spot by the open window. This time he'd jumped up and perched on the strip of counter next to the sink. His cigarette collected ash on the tip, just burning softly, absently. He halted and they considered one another silently.

"You should go," Christophe broke first, inhaling. "You wouldn't want to be late."

"I wish you would talk to me." The other man glanced over at him sharply and Ethan shrugged a little. "But I guess it's too much to hope that you would change at all. You never were one for talking, spent all your complicated words at the office, right?"

He didn't wait for a response.

He left, he went to work. It felt like every argument they'd had while they'd been in the "on" position of on-again-off-again. Ethan walked through the heavy double doors of the precinct and got on the elevator. It felt like Saturday morning all over again. He found Clanahan waiting for him in the same chair across from their Captain. Without saying a word or glancing in Clanahan's direction, he slid into the free chair.

Augustas tapped a finger against her chapped bottom lip while she read a thin report, less than a dozen pages clipped into a manila folder. It had to have been Clanahan's work; heaven knew Ethan hadn't spent more than a minimal amount of time sitting behind his own desk filing paperwork in the past forty-eight hours.

Eventually she set it aside with a sigh. "I'm seeing more questions than answers here."

Clanahan shrugged noncommittally. "Then you're seeing the exact same thing we are. You know how these cases go, without an initial suspect, it's exponentially more difficult to discover what happened."

"You don't need to read me the handbook, Patrick."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan saw the werewolf sigh and slouch in his chair. Augustas was looking at him quietly, one hand splayed across the report.

"Is that your opinion as well, Detective Ellison?"

He nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir. If you look at CSU's report there was no physical evidence recovered from the scene besides Miss Walker's body and the ME's report is... well, I think _highly inconclusive_ just about covers it. We've been by her apartment, talked to her co-workers, we're following up on an anomaly that's popped up but at this time we don't have any real reason to suspect it had something to do with her death."

"What kind of anomaly?" Augustas asked, eyes sharp on him.

Ethan glanced at Clanahan who gave no reaction to his words. "For some reason she had a number of pet GPS's in her possession. It's odd but not outright suspicious. We have our questions concerning Joram Tremblé's presence at the crime scene the night of the murder but thanks to his pack patriarch, he's now in the wind. I doubt we'll run across him again any time soon. Now that we've questioned him, he's going to be lying low."

"Do you really think he was involved?"

"Not..." He hesitated, considered. "No, I don't. But I wouldn't be surprised if he knows more than he told us the other night. The same goes for Aaron Maccabee."

His captain nodded and closed the file folder. She glanced between him and Clanahan a couple times before replying, "I wish I could help you there. I'll put in a word with some people I know, see if I can get you back in to see him but I wouldn't hold my breath. You took him by surprise the first time, that's not going to happen again. And, police Captain or not, these guys tend not to listen to people like me."

Ethan knew she was referring to her utterly ordinary human DNA. It had to be a delicate position to hold, being a human in a position of authority in a politically paranormal district.

"So what's your next step?"

Ethan glanced at Clanahan, askance, trying to be as subtle as possible about it. His partner looked grim, face stoney and dark eyebrows pulled low over his eyes. "Well," he started to say.

"We've got a lead on a number from Miss Walker's phone. We're going to follow up on that," the werewolf interrupted.

Augustas nodded, "Then get out of here and go do that."

Clanahan lead them out of the Captain's office, silent and visibly brooding. Ethan followed a couple paces behind, a little cautious. He wasn't sure what to expect from the guy; hadn't they just agreed to try and stop blowing so hot and cold? He genuinely couldn't decide if being blinded by a bit of unresolved sexual tension was an upgrade from their fighting from Saturday or not.

They stopped at the wolf's desk. He didn't sit, just started moving papers around while Ethan hovered a bit awkwardly to one side, watching.

"So... back to Ilan Maccabee's?"

Clanahan froze, just for a second, then grunted something that sounded like an affirmative, holstering his weapon and locking his desk drawer. He lead the way to the stairs. Every step tasted like déjà vu.

"We're just going to ignore what happened then?" To Ethan's thinking, the first floor landing really did seem like the most appropriate place for this conversation. He stopped short of the bottom step so that when Clanahan swung back around to face him, Ethan had a couple inches on him for once.

The other man opened his mouth, visibly hesitated and closed it. He seemed unsure to Ethan, who tried to keep his face calm and impassive, as though he didn't care one way or another what Clanahan's response would be. He wasn't sure how to feel about whatever the wolf might say, whether he wanted to just ignore the tension between them or work it out.

Clanahan surprised him when, after a minute, he said, "I don't know what happened, but I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It won't happen again."

"Right, a mistake. It happens." Ethan tried to keep the confused stutter out of his tone. He was simultaneously impressed that the other man had actually acknowledged that there was a reason for the new tension between them and shocked that he'd apologized without prompting. And really, it was the best response he could have hoped for. After all, _he_ certainly wasn't interested in Pa—Clanahan like that. He had enough on his plate with Christophe, adding an office affair to the mix was the absolute last thing he needed in his life.

Ethan had eyes, he could quite easily see how attractive his partner was and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little tempted to climb him like a tree. Clanahan was tall, broad without being intimidating or bulky, all dark hair and bright eyes, inhabiting every inch of his black Irish heritage.

He had fucked enough pretty people, on both sides of the border, and he'd been with plenty of people full of personality—Christophe being, again, an excellent example of this. Both of those things in, by turns, a playful and cutting package? Sure, it was catnip or maybe he should say, mage-nip, and hardly something Ethan was going to be ashamed about.

No matter how much he may have enjoyed screwing the guy, didn't mean he had to, or even that he wanted to when it came down to it. This situation between them was precarious enough and Ethan was fully aware of how quickly it could unravel around them. There had been a moment, before the scene outside Maccabee's house, when it seemed like they were actually getting along, where it felt like they were actually working together—as partners. A not so tiny part of Ethan wanted that feeling back. He hadn't been looking for it, for a partner, hadn't thought he wanted one, but he couldn't deny that there was something soothing about having someone to share lunch with, to drive, to bring coffee to in the morning.

Christ, listen to him, you'd think they had just messed up ten years of working together, not four days. Ethan gave himself a good mental shake and tuned back into Clanahan's confused expression. He'd taken a step closer while Ethan had been lost in his own thoughts.

"Honestly, I don't know what happened but I swear I can control myself in the future."

"There's something to control?" Ethan mused, not really thinking through the implications of his words.

Clanahan looked distinctly uncomfortable now. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, such an obviously embarrassed fidget that Ethan was more than a little shocked to see it.

"No, of course not—that's not what I meant exactly," he denied. "Look, do we really have to hang round on the stairs talking about our feelings? Nothing happened, nothing will happen. We agreed to try to make this," Clanahan gestured between them, "this partners thing work. You still want that? Because I do."

"Of course I want it."

"Good. Then let's just go stake out Ilan Maccabee's and find out how he knows our victim, okay?"

He looked at Ethan, eyes a little too wide and mouth a flushed red where he'd been biting his lower lip. In that moment, unsure where the motivation even came from, Ethan wanted to take that lip between his teeth and bite it until the other man rolled over. Instead, he took a deep breath and painted a carefully amused expression onto his face.

"You've got a date. You go get the car, and I'll go pick us up a couple shitty break room coffees. It'll be just like the movies."

Clanahan rolled his eyes. Ethan felt surprisingly disappointed.

#

Ilan Maccabee had a record in the system; it wasn't much of one, misdemeanors mostly, a couple of arrests for brawling. It looked like every other police record for a South Seattle beta with a short temper and an inclination for trouble. Going out to drink and punch each other in the face was what betas did instead of watching the game on ESPN. So a background check gave them a description, his last registered license plate number and the address to his house. Pat hadn't been able able to find a single record of Ilan being employed, though it was reasonable to assume that just meant he was working for a pack member under the table. Again, not unusual.

They swung through a Starbucks at Ellison's insistence, picking up grande lattes smelling strongly of sugar and bitter espresso. Thanks to the meeting that morning with Jordan, they had managed to miss most of rush hour traffic and arrived outside Maccabee's house in less than a quarter of an hour. Pat parked them across the street between a crooked Ford Ranger and an older, bright red Volvo. They didn't exactly blend in with the Camaro but he comforted himself with the fact that they were still less conspicuous than they would have been in Ellison's shiny Audi. At least in this neighborhood. The street and the houses on it were quiet.

Ellison set his seat back a few degrees and propped his wool clad knees up on the dashboard, taking a long slow sip of his coffee. He didn't speak or look at Pat this time. When they'd been in the Captain's office he'd been hopelessly aware of the other detective's eye on him, questioning and uncertain by turns. Pat hadn't been able to return the looks, hadn't felt prepared to offer any explanation for the near slip-up between them the day before. He didn't _have_ an explanation.

Silence settled over the car, thick and not exactly oppressive, but not very comfortable either. Pat fiddled with his own cup of coffee but didn't actually drink from it. He wasn't a fan; espresso always left him feeling twitchy. Ellison, on the other hand, seemed to live on the stuff.

"We really don't have a work address for this guy? I mean, are we even sure he's still in town?" Ellison asked after a while.

Pat shrugged. "I spent most of yesterday looking but he's barely in the system. And you heard the Captain, we can't just go barging around Maccabee House demanding answers."

"So instead we'll just waste who knows how much time staking out an empty house our guy might not even be staying in. I'm having a hard time understanding how this is our best plan."

"If you have a better one I'm listening but I didn't see you exactly volunteering to—"

"It's fine, I'm just musing aloud. The Captain was right when she said we have nothing."

"That's not actually what she said."

"Close enough. We need a better lead than a phone number or a funny smell and a couple slippery betas we can't keep hold of. You did notice the guy from the PI sniffing around downstairs, right?"

Pat glanced at him, surprised. Ellison nodded and gestured with his cup for emphasis.

"Yeah. Pretty soon the other papers are going to get a clue and descend on the precinct. If that happens and we still don't have anything for Augustas it's going to be both our asses she chews out, and not in a fun way."

He snorted and looked away. Ellison had a good point. Pat hated dealing with the press and he had no illusions about who Jordan would throw under the train if they caught wind of this case. She'd leave him to the tender mercies of the PR department and let him explain why they didn't know who or what had torn a norm to shreds in the heart of the district. The locals would love it.

Pat considered what would happen if they left the media to Ellison and had to shudder a little. It really didn't bear thinking about, and that was if the mage managed to get through an interview without accidentally getting himself punched in the face or causing a microphone to explode first.

"What's so amusing?" Ellison's voice cut through his thoughts.

Pat focused back on the moment, the car and the house and Ellison staring at him a little suspiciously over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing," he muttered, slurping. "It looked like you almost cracked a smile for a second there."

"Never," Pat answered dryly. "And could you drink that any louder?"

Ellison ignored him.

"It's going to make you have to pee every half hour. Have you ever even been on a stake-out before?"

"Of course I have, we have stakeouts in Robbery, probably more than you do. I've spent dozens of hours sitting in the back of vans doing surveillance on gun runners and drug runners and—"

"So that's a 'no', right?"

Ellison huffed, "No, it's not a 'no', I really have been on stakeouts before. I just don't have a tiny pea-sized bladder despite what you seem to think."

He tipped back his head and audibly drained his cup, smacking his lips a little in satisfaction and wedging the empty cup under his seat. Pat grimaced and just barely refrained from yelling about the carpets. He took a couple deep breaths and reminded himself this partnership _wasn't even permanent_. If he could just get through the next couple of days, get a suspect, close the case, then Ethan would go back to his desk on the ground floor and Pat wouldn't have to worry about coffee stains on the upholstery or surprise sushi for lunch.

Looking at Ellison's comfortable sprawl across the passenger side of the car, Pat felt suddenly inexplicably jealous of the ease with which the other man seemed to accept a dismissal of the other day. He hadn't pushed in the stairwell, for which Pat was supremely grateful, and now he appeared completely at ease. Ellison's entire body looked relaxed in repose, bright red converse propped against the windshield glass and surprisingly long legs folded into the cramped space. The toe of his shoe tapped out an uneven rhythm.

"So how long have you known Christophe?" Patrick winced and thought briefly of bashing his head into the steering wheel until either it broke or his skull did. So much for not bringing up awkward topics and making the atmosphere about a hundred times more tense.

Ellison arched an eyebrow at him, lips a tight line. After a couple seconds though he replied, "Since we were kids. We grew up together. It's a long story."

"In Seattle?"

"Oh, no." Ellison looked surprised for a second. He glanced out the side passenger window. "No, I'm actually from Quebec. Montreal, to be specific."

This was a surprise, Pat actually felt a little shocked. He hadn't had a clue; then again, why should he?

"You're Canadian? How does that even work, being employed by an American police department?"

"Dual citizenship. My mother was American."

_Was_ , the word echoed around his head.

"But you didn't grow up here?"

Ellison was beginning to look a little uncomfortable, face taking on a pinched expression and his body twisting uncomfortably in his seat.

"No, my parents... well, my father is a bit of a bastard. She left him when I was a kid, but he wouldn't let her take me, so I grew up with his side of the family. Ellison's actually her name. Like I said, it's complicated."

"So you're close, you and Christophe? You're still in contact?" Any time his brain decided to stop asking probing questions, Patrick would be more than grateful.

Ellison laughed a little. "Yeah, close. We dated for a while, back when we were living together. I haven't seen him in years, though. He just showed up on my doorstep out of the blue wanting to rehash old times or something. I honestly don't know what's going on, though I do have a couple theories."

Pat gave him a questioning look.

"Either he's decided to have a mid-life crisis early, or he got fired." Ellison made a quiet humming noise, tapping the toes of shoes against the glass. "He reacted badly when I suggested the former this morning. I don't know. We didn't exactly part on the best of terms."

Something in Pat's stomach sank, leaving him with a knotted queasy feeling in his stomach. "Bad break-up?"

Ellison shrugged. "Not really. I just left one day and never went back. I sent a postcard when I decided to stay here, which, I mean I was twenty-one, I won't claim to be the most sensitive person. The point is he never responded and it was radio silence for almost a decade." He glanced at Pat, looking curious. "That's unusual, right?"

He looked away, feeling a little uncomfortable with the genuine confusion in the mage's expression, shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

Ellison laughed darkly. "No, I guess you wouldn't have a lot of people from your foolish youth showing up for shits and giggles."

"No, I wouldn't. I grew up with my family— my little brother, my sisters, all our cousins. They're all still here."

"Sounds like a big family."

Pat shrugged. "We're werewolves, it's part and parcel, just who we are."

"Right," he murmured, looking down at his knees.

"And," Pat continued after a second's hesitation, "I don't exactly have exes."

"None?" Ellison asked, sounding surprised.

He shook his head, flushing a little under the weight of the other man's surprise. "Werewolf."

"Well, yeah, but don't you... date first or something?"

It was Pat's turn to look away. "No. Not really. It's pretty much a one and only forever kind of deal."

"Jesus." Ellison breathed. His fingers tapped a sharp _rat-a-tat-tat_ against the car door. "I can't imagine..."

"Well no, why would you?" Pat interrupted, a little more harshly than he meant to but Ellison's disbelieving tone was beginning to catch on his nerves. He'd grown up in a happy, monogamous home; he didn't understand the desire to go out and fuck everything that moved. Sure, he was almost thirty and still alone— something of an oddity for a beta his age, especially one with as prominent family position as his own— but he'd never met anyone who set his blood on fire and made his wolf howl. He wasn't going to settle for anything less than his mate. He didn't _want_ to settle for anything less. Until he met that person, whoever they may be, he had his work and it was... enough. Really, enough.

Ellison snapped his mouth closed and scowled a little.

Before Pat could figure out what to say, whether to try and explain how it felt to a werewolf or change the subject, a clattering Wagoneer rolled past them and pulled into Ilan Maccabee's driveway. Almost in sync, the two of them sat up straight, two pairs of eyes glued on the house across the street. A man with dark, close cropped curly hair hopped out of the vehicle and strolled through the front door.

"Tell me that's him," Ellison said.

Pat nodded, "That's him. Come on." Ellison flanked him as they crossed the street. "You should let me do the talking."

"What?" Ellison protested, his footsteps faltering. "Why?"

Pat shot him a look over his shoulder. "You really have to ask? No offense, but the last thing we need is to alienate him." He rang the doorbell to forestall any other arguments and it opened a second later, a confused Ilan Maccabee peering out at them curiously.

"I'm not looking for Jesus?" He tried cautiously.

Pat pulled back the edge of his suit coat to where the badge on his belt was visible and shook his head, "Not what we're here for. Ilan Maccabee?" he waited for the other man to nod and confirm his identity. "We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions."

"About what?"

"Can we come in first?"

The other werewolf's expression shut down and he glared at Pat, visibly scenting the air. His eyes narrowed further when he got a good whiff of Pat's scent.

"I don't think so, McClanahan."

Pat sighed. Ellison stepped up next to him, expression hard.

"We asked you politely, that was a courtesy. We're investigating a murder which means whatever beef you may have with other werewolves? I don't give a shit. The next time we ask to come in, it's not going to be a request and we won't get to have a nice, civilized sit down in your living room."

Ilan Maccabee took a step across the threshold and growled softly. Ellison practically laughed in his face. Patrick could see the way the other man wrapped himself up in bravado, pasting a snide expression onto his mouth and staring down the other wolf. He didn't show an ounce of fear or self preservation, he smelled richly of defiance, not a trace of smoke or spice on him.

"So, let me ask you again, can we come in? Or should I just go get Joram Tremblé to confirm it was _your_ scent he caught the night of Matilde Walker's murder and have you arrested on suspicion of—"

Ilan's growl shifted up in pitch into a full fledged snarl. Ellison didn't even blink but the sound made all the hair on Pat's body stand on end and set his wolf on edge. It felt like a caged beast in his chest, pacing and snapping at the bars, at Ilan _fucking_ Maccabee who dared threaten his—

The two men stood toe to toe, eye to eye, though Ellison was several inches shorter. Ilan wasn't exactly broad but he was still a wolf, still all tightly coiled energy and inhuman strength. Ellison looked him in the eye and grinned a little maniacally. It made Pat stare, shocked at the way he shifted from relaxed, quietly talking about himself and answering questions about his personal life to... _this_. The wolf under his skin approved.

Ilan didn't appear to appreciate it. One second he looked about ready to close the distance between them and bite Ellison's face off, the next minute he'd spun on his heel and slammed the front door shut on them.

Ellison blinked. "What just happened?" he asked, sounding bewildered. It didn't take much for Pat to pick out the sound of footsteps racing through the house. He growled and shouldered Ellison back, tensed his entire body and flung himself at the front door. It splintered beneath his weight and forward momentum.

"Clanahan, what the hell—"

"He's running," he snarled back and raced into the house. He could hear Ellison cursing behind him but the mage followed on his heels, dress shoes loud against the hard wood floors.

A tremendous crash lead them through the living room, the kitchen to the backdoor where it sagged on its hinges and through the gaping hole, the back of Ilan Maccabee fleeing across his neighbor's backyard. He tripped over a child's bike left out in the grass and went down with a loud snarl. Patrick slipped through the hole in the door and charged after him. The other wolf made to vault over a tall slatted fence when Ellison's voice cut across the sounds of their heavy breathing.

" _Stop!_ "

Patrick was a handful of feet away when a shock of blinding light split the air and struck Ilan in the back. He went down with a high pitched howl, writhing on the grass.

"Holy crap!" Ellison exclaimed. He skidded to a stop behind Patrick, voice sounding high strung and shocked; he kept clenching and unclenching his dominant hand. He began rattling off the Miranda speech and handed over a tarnished set of runed handcuffs. "Here, use these."

"Thanks," Pat replied, his voice little more than a growl. He slapped the cuffs on and drug a shivering Ilan Maccabee to his feet.

"You can't do this!" the wolf snarled piteously. Pat jerked his arms up tighter against the small of his back.

"Watch me," he snarled.

"You ran from police and resisted arrest, not to mention you're still wanted for questioning in relation to a murder," Ellison listed off, leading the way back to their car. "Better men than you have been arrested on less, trust me." He smiled snidely over his shoulder.

The drive back to the station was conducted in stiff silence, broken occasionally by a pained huff of air from their suspect.

They shuffled him through to Interrogation as subtly as possible, trading Ellison's personal cuffs for the pair set into the floor. Ellison got them more coffee—the crap from the break room which he drowned in sugar and non-dairy creamer—and they settled into the two chairs across the table from a scowling Maccabee.

"Well, that was fun." Ellison started them off, rubbing his fingers together and smiling too widely, showing all his teeth. "If you're done being a nuisance, I'd like to go back to the part where we ask you if you had anything to do with the death of Matilde Walker five nights ago."

Ilan glared across the table at him mulishly.

Ellison's expression remained blithely innocent. "Huh, so I guess that means you had _everything_ to do with it then?"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Then maybe you would care to explain it to me. Did you kill her?" Ellison asked, not giving an inch, his expression becoming shuttered and closed, deadly serious.

Pat glanced as subtly as he could at his partner from the corner of his eye and thrilled at the heat and the tension rolling off Ellison. The man looked alive, staring Ilan Maccabee down from across a shitty interrogation table in a shitty, cream-colored interrogation room, like he hadn't when they first started working together, like he hadn't in his own house, tired and exasperated and stealing a cigarette from his— from Christophe's slack mouth. There were no dark circles under his eyes now; instead, they were clear, sharp and unrelenting. Pat leaned in close to his shoulder, until they were almost touching, until he imagined he could feel the warmth of skin through their clothes.

Ellison was questioning Maccabee, his voice sharp like a knife, cutting questions into the thick skin of their suspect who snarled back in monosyllabic denials. Pat couldn't focus on the questions, or even the words, themselves.

Pat could feel the aggression rolling off Ilan, smell the frustration in the burst of hot, bitter sweat, breaking out across his skin. The other wolf's breathing grew erratic, his heartbeat all but thundering in Pat's ears. In contrast, Ellison's was brutally calm and steady, a soothing almost hypnotic _thud thud thud_ beating in time with Pat's own pulse. All he could hear was the rush of blood under skin. His wolf sat up and noticed, an excited lolling tongue in the back of his head desperately trying to fucking yip in excitement.

Peripherally, he knew this feeling was out of character, knew that he needed to get a handle on it, take back control. A tiny part of his mind was telling him to get between his partner and Ilan Maccabee. The other wolf surged suddenly and angrily against the restraints in response to something Ellison was saying. This time, Pat didn't listen to the part of his brain trying to be rational. This time he snapped his own teeth together and let a low rumble start deep in his diaphragm, buzz through his muscle and sinew until he imagined it rolling out of his throat to join with Ellison's own voice.

Ilan Maccabee visibly twitched but he was too stubborn to break the staring contest he'd engaged with the mage.

"Well," Ellison pushed, "did you kill her? We've got a witness that puts your scent at the scene of the crime the night of the murder. We've got your phone number in her cell phone. Seems very suspicious if you ask me." Lies mostly, but the other wolf didn't know that.

Ilan shook his head and huffed in disgust.

"We can do this one of two ways, Ilan, either you give in, and we discuss this like civilized people, and you start answering our questions, or I swear to god I will charge you right now. I have had it up to here with being brushed off and disregarded by the werewolves in this city. Am I being absolutely clear?"

Pat jumped as he felt a tingle go through his right hand. He glanced down, eyes widening as he watched a tendril of soft blue electricity coalesced at the tips of Ellison's fingers and dripped slowly off his skin, sparking and jumping from the other man to Pat's own skin. It didn't hurt, just tripped into his nerves like a rush of adrenaline.

His instincts, his wolf, were responding to the choking, cloying pheromones rolling off the other wolf and the magic spike only helped to whip his senses into a fury. Every nerve strained to thrum in time with El— with Ethan, with— pa— partner— pack.

"I swear to you, I didn't kill her. I—" Ilan Maccabee almost whined beneath the weight of Ellison's eyes. "We were friends, I liked her!"

"Were you with her the night she died?"

"No, I swear." His heart rate accelerated and his eyes dilated.

Pat leaned into Ellison and brought his mouth right up against the mage's ear, whispered, "He's lying," and thoroughly enjoyed the way Ellison shivered and leaned back into him. The man's shoulder brushed his chest through too many layers of clothing.

"I told you to cooperate, Ilan, but since you seem incapable of doing that— you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will—" Ellison's voice cut off and his body jerked back sharply. He scrambled to his feet as Ilan practically leapt across the table. The standard cuffs snapped under the strength of an enraged werewolf. Maccabee closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, his fist slamming into Ellison's surprised expression.

His head snapped around and Pat instinctually reached out to get a steadying arm around his waist. It took a second for the smell of blood to hit his nose and then he saw red.

Ellison grabbed him, twisting in his grip and winding an intractable arm around his chest as the wolf in him rose up and howled into Ilan Maccabee's pale face. The other wolf dropped to his knees on the floor in an instant, shivering. His head bowed, his shoulders hunched, making his body as small and inoffensive as possible. It wasn't the sort of reaction you would expect from a strong beta but Patrick wasn't thinking anything coherent right then. All he could do was growl and snap, hands fisted and blood roaring in his ears. Ellison was yelling in his ear, telling him to _Calm the fuck down!_ while blood poured out of his nose, ruining the pristine fabric of his clothes.

"Clanahan!" Ellison wrapped both arms around his chest and planted a foot against the leg of the table where it was bolted down, keeping him just out of reach of the prostrate Maccabee. "Fucking hell— Patrick! Get a fucking grip on yourself, you're supposed to be the good cop here!" The words meant nothing but the tone ratcheted up the longer they struggled and without having to think about it too hard, Pat let himself sag into the embrace. He twisted and buried his face in the flushed curve of Ethan's neck. He felt the hot splash of blood against his skin, it made him shudder and whine a little, high in his throat. He could smell the confusion on Ethan, beneath the blood and the adrenaline.

Ilan shivered behind them, still on the floor of Interrogation Room 3.

"Jesus christ, what the fuck is going on here?" Ethan spoke calm and deliberate, his voice rumbling through his chest straight into Pat. "Clanahan?" He ran a shaking hand down the length of his back. "Patrick? I don't know what's going on with you but I'm going to arrest this guy, okay? I need you to let go. Shit, I really need a—"

Pat pulled away and took the creased pocket square out of his suit coat, pushing it into Ethan's empty hands. The mage gave him a confused look but put it up to his nose in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He gave Pat a suspicious look and his voice when he spoke was thick and garbled.

"Does this mean you're back with me?"

Pat couldn't respond. His body felt strung out and he couldn't let himself look at Maccabee still trembling on his knees.

"I'll take that as a no. Just— get out of here, go and wait for me outside."

Pat stepped back on autopilot and sidled to the door, his eyes unwavering on Ethan. He watched through the glass, an ear trained through the thick wall of the precinct, as his partner wadded up the handkerchief and stuck it in his pocket. Ethan manhandled Ilan to his feet, cuffed him again, and half led, half hauled him out of the room. He gave Pat a hard look and shoved Maccabee at a confused looking patrolman who happened to be standing nearby, dribbling water out of a leaking paper cup onto the dingy linoleum.

"Charge this guy with assaulting a police officer and book him," Ethan mumbled through the blood on his face. He waited for the junior officer to haltingly take charge of Maccabee before he tried mopping up the worst of the blood on his chest. He gave up after a few seconds and settled for holding the wet handkerchief to his face and tilted his head back against the wall next to Pat. Ethan didn't look at him.

"I do not believe you almost attacked a— shit, he's not even a suspect Clanahan."

Pat grimaced and rumbled a little.

"Cut it out," the other man snapped.

"Did he break your nose?" he demanded. It was a challenge to talk through the wolf's elongated eye teeth.

"No, I don't think so. He caught me by surprise but it was a pretty sloppy punch." He carefully stuck the clean edges of the bloody rag into both nostrils.

"The Captain is going to eat us alive and for the record, this is all your fault," Ethan said, his voice almost unintelligible.

Pat frowned and got as far as opening his mouth to protest.

"No, all right, not my best interview either, but still like ninety percent your fault and trust me, I am totally throwing you under the bus for this debacle."

"No you won't. You antagonized a suspect and got your face bashed in after Jordan told us to play nice with the blood," Pat forced the words out from between his teeth— he couldn't get his shift under control, tiny pinpricks of pain where he'd bit his bottom lip.

"Fine, great, then we can both get our throats ripped out by Aaron Maccabee after he hears about that little domestic."

"I won't let that happen."

"No, really, you won't? Will you stop him from suing our corpses afterwards too?"

Pat growled softly. Without thinking he reached out and slipped a hand around the solid curve of Ethan's thigh, concentrating on the thrum of blood he could feel there. He nodded jerkily down the hall towards processing, "You saw him, he folded like he's made out of tissue paper and we dumped a bucket of water over his head. That's not a normal response."

Ethan twitched a little under his hand but didn't move away. "You sure about that? You got pretty fangy and dangerous sounding back there."

Pat shook his head, "It's wrong. He smelled wrong, he responded wrong. There's something going on here, something I can't quite put into words for you, but I can feel it." He glanced over at him and waited for Ethan to meet his eyes. "Trust me."

The other man looked less than convinced but he tilted his head in the barest indication of a nod. "Sure, I'll get right on that."

## **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

##

Patrick tried to get himself back under control when they parted ways in the squad room. Ellison disappeared into the ground floor bathroom to clean himself up. In that short period of time, however, his nose had still managed to gush like a fountain down the front of his clothes.

After the booking officer had Ilan fingerprinted and sequestered in a cell, he had Pat sign the paperwork. Discharged, temporarily, of their responsibility, Pat followed Ellison. He found the other man braced over a sink, patting futilely at the bloodstains with a wet paper towel. His nose looked red and tender but otherwise intact.

"Everything taken care of?" Ellison asked, voice thick.

Pat nodded and leaned against the porcelain, one sink over. He couldn't stop staring at the tense line of his partner's back as he worked.

"Fuck, I liked this shirt." Ellison sighed. He binned the paper towel and grabbed another one to scrub at his face, wincing.

"You all right?" Pat asked quietly.

Ellison snorted then groaned in pain.

"Yeah, I told you it's fine. I mean, not really fine, I don't know about you but I don't care for being punched in the face, but I'll live. My clothes, however, look like they they came off the set of a slasher flick." He sighed and rested both hands against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. To Pat's eyes, he looked tired, all the fight drained out of him along with the blood.

"Come on." He took Ellison by the arm and held up a hand to forestall arguments. All the tension from earlier was still thrumming through Pat's blood. Ilan Maccabee may not have been anywhere in sight or even on this floor but Patrick could still smell him on their clothes, in the blood that lingered in the grooves of Ethan's skin and his shirt. The longer they stayed there, the more the scents wiggled into his brain. Every instinct told him to get Ethan out and away, somewhere warm and safe and clean him up and double check to make sure every inch of him was still intact. Pat didn't know _why_ he felt this way, just that he did and it was unpleasant, hot and heavy in his chest.

Their luck held, and there was no sign of Augustas despite the commotion. They got out the front door without anyone stopping to stare. It took that long for Ellison to wake up enough to protest. He stopped short and jerked against Pat's hold.

"We can't just leave! We have to question Maccabee before someone from the pack—like, oh say _his alpha_ —shows up and springs him."

"They won't," Pat said from between gritted teeth.

"It's barely three in the afternoon!"

"You need a change of clothes."

"And I'm perfectly capable of taking care of that myself. I don't need you holding my hand. I'll drive home and be back—"

"No."

Ethan's mouth fell open in surprise, his face slack with shock. The bright red ringing his nose and the right side of his face was still stark against his paler skin. It made his expression look—garish, almost.

"I beg your pardon—"

"We're leaving, come on," Pat said, his voice intractable. He wrapped his hand tight around Ethan's arm and pulled him outside and into the car.

It looked like the mage was about to start protesting again but his phone rang as they peeled out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. He answered with a tight voice and a frown but the expression smoothed out as he listened to the person on the other end.

"A hundred and fifty separate chips? And all of them were activated—yeah, you got a copy of the court order allowing—great. They're all from you guys?"

Pat focused on driving, letting the rhythm of Ethan's words wash over him.

"So you can map all of this for us? Great, how long will—tomorrow, lunch, sure, we'll swing by and you can show us whatever else you've found. Thanks, Niall, we really appreciate..."

Pat kept a townhouse in a nice part of Queen Anne. It had been in the family for a couple generations, all original fixtures, black and white tile and polished wood floors in the living areas. Until her marriage, his sister Mal had lived in the other half of the house, but now they rented it to some cousins going to the university.

He parked on the street and they sat in tense silence for a minute while the engine ticked as it cooled. Ethan stared out the windshield, his face pale and blotchy and his mouth a hard, white line.

"Come on," Pat said, slamming his car door. Ellison didn't move. The wolf had to slip around the side of the car and remove him, silent and uncooperative. Pat manhandled them both up the steep walk and into the house, his hand twisted up in the other man's suit coat, unwilling to let go.

Pat kicked the door closed behind them and started pulling Ethan out of his clothes.

Inside, the townhouse was cool. It had scuffed wooden floors and walls painted in soothing whites and pale blues. Mal had done all the redecorating when they'd moved out of the family home. There was white wicker furniture in the living room and light curtains over every window—gauzy enough to let in natural light whether or not he remembered to open or close them every day. The kitchen was stocked with dishes he hadn't bought and rarely used, and the breakfast nook looked like something out of _Veranda_ magazine. She'd hung her own art on the walls—abstract watercolors from her first year studying painting in college.

Now, watery afternoon sun lit up all the dust in the air, as clear a sign as any his tendency to neglect the place.

Ethan stopped short and yanked his arm away from Pat with an unexpected twist.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, voice as blank as his face.

"You're covered in blood," Pat replied.

Ethan glanced down at his ruined clothes. "You know, I had noticed that actually. That doesn't explain why you brought me _here_? I thought you were going to take me back to my—"

Pat growled and stepped right up into the other man's space. He couldn't answer _why,_ but he needed Ethan Ellison in his space, safely tucked away in his territory where he could keep an eye on him, far away from any other werewolves. Away from _Maccabees_ and _Tremblés_. Without being able to vocalize any of these conflicting feelings, he reached out and yanked the coat away from Ethan's shoulders. The elongated claws on his right hand caught in the fine cotton of the man's button down shirt and _tore_.

Ethan swore and tried to jerk away. Pat grabbed his arms in an intractable grip, keeping their bodies close, practically breathing each other's air.

"What the fuck, Clanahan!"

He started working on the rest of his partner's clothes, popping seams and careless of buttons, taking in the salty sweet scent of his sweat and his blood.

Ethan struggled against him, confusion making his efforts more clumsy than effective. After a second, though, he got a tight grip around one of Pat's wrists and dug in until he drew little crescents of blood. Pat whined high in the back of his throat.

"God damn it, let go of me, you Neanderthal."

"He _touched_ you," Pat snarled.

Ethan dug in harder. "Yeah, and I'm fine. This though, what you're doing right now? Very not fine."

"He shouldn't have touched you."

"You don't have to tell me that!" He twisted and got their arms up between them. "What are you thinking here, Clanahan? Let me go!"

"No!" Pat couldn't stop the ugly sound the words made clawing their way out of his throat. The noise made Ethan flinch and struggle harder, the confusion draining away from the lines of his face until he just looked...mad.

"Fucking let go!" Static burst from the tips of his fingers straight into Patrick. The werewolf let go. "Jesus, if you aren't telling me to get lost, you're dragging me home like a cave man and ripping my clothes off. What gives?" Ethan put space between them, fingering the remains of his shirt.

Pat buried his face in his hands, breathing in gasps, trying to get a handle on the emotions raging through him. It felt worse than a full moon, like the wolf was howling just below his skin. He was so angry, not at Ellison, but at Maccabee. All he could see in the darkness behind his closed eyes was the other werewolf as he surged across the interrogation table, fist flying, the jerk of his partner's body and the blood.

"Cla—Patrick?" Ethan's voice hiccuped over his name.

"Shit," he exhaled. "I need...it's the blood, maybe—I can smell him still. On you, on your clothes. I usually have more control than this I just—" he sank to his knees in the middle of the entry hall and moaned.

"I'm getting pretty sick and tired of people manhandling me," Ethan said into the silence.

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what you were doing," Ethan interrupted. No, not Ethan, he was Ellison again. His tone was short and clipped. "You're a fucking sanctimonious prick, you know that?"

Patrick's head jerked up and he met Ellison's angry expression, shocked.

"Yeah, that's right. From day one you've been looking down on me, judging me, giving me shit about how I choose to live my life. Who the fuck are you? The captain's pet werewolf? The freak who's better known for his prowess at murdering vamps than his _detective skills_?" he snarled the last words and Pat growled back, rising to his feet. Ellison met him toe-to-toe, little sparks of energy crackling across his skin.

"You don't know anything—"

"No, of course I don't, I'm just the idiot mage you got saddled with. The one with the big mouth who can't help himself, just pisses off everyone in his path, who needs _rescuing._ Let me tell you something, that's the last thing I need from the likes of you!"

"That's not—"

"I'm not a child!"

"I never said you were!" Pat yelled back.

Ellison froze, the color draining out of his face. He darted a swift, unsure glance from Pat's hands to his eyes and then down to his mouth.

"I wasn't trying to rescue you," Pat argued. "You—you were brilliant in there, you stood up to him, you provoked an honest response. That's not—" He was still breathing too hard, heart thundering in his chest. "He _hit_ you. You're my partner and you got hurt, you bled. I know I'm not being entirely rational here but it's not because I think you're weak or—" whatever else he might have tried to say got trapped in the space between his lips where they met Ethan's.

Pat felt strong hands carding his hair away from his face, gripping tight where it was long enough at the back of his head. He gasped into the sensation, the tingle it sent straight to his gut. Ethan bit at his lips, wet and harsh, his tongue demanding entry.

It was almost four in the afternoon. A door slammed next door.

He had little frame of reference for what was happening. Ethan's tongue stroked against his own, across the roof of his mouth firm enough so that it didn't tickle, around the insides of his teeth.

Pat had tried kissing a girl he liked in the eleventh grade. Her name was Kat Silverstine. She'd worn her soft brown hair in an edgy, asymmetrical bob. She was the daughter of a witch and almost a year older. She'd kissed him back for thirty second before pulling away, patting his cheek and explaining very succinctly that he was sweet but it could never work between them. That had been fine, he'd known she was right before the kiss had even ended.

Ethan's fingers stroked along the planes of his face, holding him close and kissing him until his lips stung. When he pulled away, he looked dreamy—Pat couldn't think of another word for it. His mouth was wet and red, his eyes half-lidded, pupils blown. Then he blinked and the look melted into shock. Ethan let go of him.

He couldn't bear it.

His partner opened his mouth to speak but Pat cut him off before he could say something they might regret. His hands, which had heretofore remained stupid and slack at his sides, grabbed Ethan's waist and pulled him back in close. He tilted his head and pressed his mouth back against the other man's with as much confidence as he could manage. A moment's hesitation and Ethan kissed him back.

They stumbled through the short hall to the master bedroom. Pat had never paid an overabundance of attention to this room _before_. He slept here, when he remembered to sleep, when he could sleep at all, but otherwise it was just a place, a bed and some drawers.

The door smacked against the wall behind them as they shed their clothes. Pat tore through the remains of Ethan's shirt until it was a pathetic pile of rags on the bedroom floor. They kissed desperately, Ethan's hands stroked across his face, curved around the back of his head, unwilling to let Pat get too far away even as he struggled out of his shoes and socks. He grabbed Ethan around the waist and spun them about, pushing him back into the bed. They landed there, amongst the hastily made sheets, in a tangle of limbs.

Ethan gasped into his mouth, pulling away to catch his breath. His green eyes were dark, almost all pupil with desire and Pat could feel him hard against his inner thigh. He settled between the other man's parted legs, rocking them together. Ethan whined beneath him, wriggling to get his hands between them and attacking his belt.

"Shit," he muttered, and Pat could feel him opening up his pants, the sound of the zipper a metallic counterpoint to their breathing. He slid off the bed at Ethan's insistence and stepped out of the rest of his clothes, boxers and slacks discarded in one smooth motion. He couldn't help preening a little under the other man's appreciative gaze; it was like a physical thing, a caress. Ethan sat up on his elbows and attacked his own fly, struggling out of his boxers as Pat pulled them off his legs and flung them across the room.

Pat paused there to take in the lean, pale lines of his partner's body. Sure, he'd caught an eye full in the station gym before but nothing like this, he hadn't been able to truly appreciate the way the trailing edges of Ethan's tattoos cupped the sharp jut of his hip bones, trailing off in a clear path towards where his hard dick twitched against his abdomen.

Pat crawled back onto the bed, spreading Ethan's legs wide enough to give him room, and buried his face in the hot juncture where thigh met abdomen. Firm hands ran across his shoulders, raising goosebumps and settled in his hair, just holding him there. He breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet, musky scent of masculine arousal and sweat. He touched the tip of his tongue to Ethan's skin and felt it jump, the muscles in his legs tensing.

"Don't be a tease," Ethan commanded, his voice all dark, ragged edges. His chest rose and fell in too quick breaths. Pat's response was to drag his tongue up across his skin, tracing his iliac crest to the first swirl of black ink, ignoring his straining dick. He grinned at the strangled noise he got in return. Pat watched a bead of pre-come form on the head, until it glistened in the afternoon light. The fingers cradling his skull tightened, sending little zings of pleasure-pain across his scalp. He wasn't ashamed to say that the wolf in him sat up and panted for it, for more.

"Either put your mouth to better use or get up here."

The mage canted his hips and Pat laughed at the ridiculous wiggle he did for attention. In the next minute he'd darted in and sucked the shiny fluid off Ethan's cock with a daring swipe of his tongue. It tasted bitter, electrical, and just a little like sulfur.

Ethan gasped, " _More_ ," and arched beneath him. Energy sparked at every point of contact between them—he felt like he'd just put his mouth on an electrical socket.

"Tell me, is this— is this how you settle all of your arguments?" Pat asked, feeling brave with every delicious reaction he coaxed out of his partner's body.

Ethan smirked at him through half-lidded eyes. He stretched out on the sheets, legs to calves to feet and toes flexing and his arms stretching up above his head to grasp the slatted headboard.

"Shut up." He wrapped one leg up around Patrick's hip and pulled him in. He gasped as their hard, leaking cocks rubbed together, shuddering and burying his face into the warm curve of Ethan's neck. Ethan wrapped his limbs around him, one arm across his shoulder blades, and the other dragging blunt nails across his skin.

His hips moved without any conscious input, grinding them together and picking up a stuttering rhythm—too much friction and not enough all at the same time. He was a young, healthy adult male, his body knew the mechanics of this even if his experience only went so far as his right hand and a box of Kleenex.

Ethan kissed him, moaning into his mouth, all teeth and tongues.

He knew the mechanics but not all the moves. Ethan was all hard muscles and soft skin beneath him, constrictor limbs and a demanding mouth. He twisted and arched and moaned wantonly. Pat ran the tips of his fingers down his flanks and swallowed the noises he made as he shivered into the touch. Pat pulled back until there was a breath of space between their lips.

"What—what should I—?" He shuddered as Ethan's hand wrapped around his cock and gave it one firm stroke before he let go again. The other man smiled and licked across his lips.

He leaned back to meet Pat's eyes, his own considering. Without warning, a twist of hips and an impressive surge of strength, Ethan flipped them in one smooth motion. His smile widened at whatever he saw in Pat's expression.

"Lube?"

Pat jerked his chin towards the bedside table.

"Top drawer."

Ethan fished out the unopened bottle then he shimmied forward so his dick bobbed a handful of inches in front of Pat's face. He thumbed Pat's bottom lip softly, eyes questioning.

It took him a second to realize what Ethan meant by the gesture. Pat hesitated; he'd barely even ever kissed someone, let alone... Swallowing his trepidation, he slid his hands up along the taut curve of Ethan's thighs, settling high on his quadriceps and giving him a tiny nod of encouragement. The decision might have been worth it just for the happy little smile Ethan beamed at him in return, sliding forward the last new inches and smudging the head of his cock against Pat's lower lip.

The taste of salty pre-come exploded in his mouth. Pat licked his lips clean and then the head of Ethan's prick, sucking up all the shiny wetness and darting his tongue curiously into the slit, tracing the flavor—taste and smell, two senses bound up together, and even more so for a werewolf. He whined softly and licked harder, feeling bold, sucking the head into his mouth.

Ethan was moving above him, little aborted thrusts of his hips as he tried not to overwhelm Pat's inexperienced mouth. His arm worked, torso twisted a little and his head hung low, chin almost to his chest. It wasn't long before he was breathing hard and pulling away with a ragged gasp.

Pat blinked open his eyes—he couldn't remember closing them—and watched Ethan shift back down his body. He opened his mouth to protest when the other man took him in hand, fingers slick with lube, stroking a couple times before he sat back. Pat jerked at the tight, hot heat. He could feel Ethan's blood racing just below the surface of his skin.

"Oh, oh god," he gasped, thrusting up until he was fully seated in the other man's ass. Ethan rolled his shoulders into the motion, breathing deeply through his mouth and moaning. Ethan had a strangle hold on his own dick, red and swollen hard and slick with spit.

Ethan sat forward, bracing his hands on the hard planes of Pat's chest and fucked himself back on his cock in a slow, easy rhythm. Pat clawed helplessly at his skin, whining, but the other man refused to speed up the pace, grinning through the fall of his bangs and the sweat on his skin.

He was gorgeous. Pat couldn't have looked away if the townhouse had spontaneously caught on fire and burned down around them.

They moved together, the sinuous rise and fall of Ethan's body, the flex of his thighs clamped tight around Pat's waist, and the short thrust of the wolf's hips up into soft heat. Sweat dripped off Ethan's skin until the air around him was saturated with the scent—Pat felt certain he would never be able to wash the smell of Ethan off of his skin—felt sure he wouldn't want to.

Ethan stripped his cock almost violently, grip tight and punishing.

"Harder," he groaned, slamming his hips down against Pat's pelvis. "Come on."

Pat grunted and planted his feet against the bed. He gripped Ethan's hips and jerked into him.

"Yes," the mage hissed, "right there, just—fuck!"

Ethan froze, suspended above him, his body one long, perfect arch with his head thrown back and his face a rictus of pleasure as he came in long, messy strands across Pat's chest. Tight muscles contracted around his cock and Pat twitched and moaned, thrusting raggedly until he followed Ethan over the edge.

They collapsed in a sticky pile of limbs, panting for breath and burning up all over.

Ethan slid off him and into the tangled sheets. He skimmed his hand across Pat's chest, patting him vaguely. The self-satisfaction was clear in his voice when he dredged up the energy to speak.

"You aren't too bad."

Before Pat could even begin to fathom a response, one of their phones started vibrating from the bedroom floor.

## **CHAPTER TWELVE**

##

Ethan stilled at the distinctive jangle of a cell phone splitting the air; an electronic counterpoint to their breathing. Before Patrick could say anything, the mage slid off the bed and grabbed the rumpled heap of his pants. He was aware of the werewolf's gaze on him like a tangible thing. He forced down the shiver in his skin. Then he answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Darling, tell me you're almost done filing paperwork or wrangling burglars or whatever it is you ran out of the house to do today."

Ethan froze, clutching the phone. He didn't dare turn around even though he had a sinking feeling it mattered little, werewolf ears probably had no trouble eavesdropping from four feet away.

"What?" he asked stupidly, trying to kick his brain hard enough it could process what was happening. Conversations with Christophe all too often began like this, in the middle, like he'd been talking to you for ages and you just hadn't been paying attention.

"Dinner Ethan, I made reservations for us at Rico's. I'm just calling to make sure you'll show up on time."

Ethan mentally cursed his entire life, that it had him led him to standing naked in his partner's bedroom, come leaking out of his ass, and trying to decipher Christophe at 5:00 o'clock in the afternoon.

"What plans?"

"The ones I made, I just said."

"I didn't agree—"

"Christ pet, it's meant to be a thank you for putting me up, I just thought we could have a nice, quiet evening. Play along, eh?" Christophe snapped.

His tone gave Ethan a moment's pause. He was conscious of Patrick, frozen and silent on the bed behind him. He didn't want to look, didn't want to see whatever might be on the other man's face. Didn't feel strong enough to bear his reaction to—to whatever the hell had just happened between them. Ethan could only be grateful that he was staying quiet.

He huffed out an irritated breath, "I'm—I still have work to do." He could hear Patrick shifting on the sheets, the rasp of slick cotton against bare skin.

Christophe laughed into his ear outright, "Don't lie. Rico's, 6:00 o'clock. Don't show up wearing guts or blood or anything like that."

"Damn it," he growled down the line, feeling all the post orgasmic endorphins draining out of him, being replaced by a tension headache behind his eyes. "Chris? I'm not—Chris?" The phone gave no reply and when he pulled the screen away from his head he saw the blinking red pop up telling him the call had been disconnected. Time to face the music then.

Or maybe just keep carefully and purposefully avoiding it.

Ethan blew out a frustrated breath and watched the phone click dark. More rustling behind him, either Clanahan getting out of the mess they'd made (likely) or making himself comfortable (unfathomable). His thoughts rabbited around his head. He had—what had he just done? Taken his temporary werewolf co-worker's virginity? You know, if all the rumors about chastity, monogamy and one true love were to be believed.

Maybe the stories were wrong, exaggerated; maybe—

"I have to go." He swore he could hear the sound of his blood rushing to the surface of his skin, the room was so silent.

Haltingly, Ethan turned, not looking at Clanahan but around him at all the spaces he inhabited. He didn't let his brain focus on the swath of lightly tanned skin—still more pale than dark in early spring but smooth and brown compared to his own—stretched out across cool grey sheets. Refused to see how the rumpled black comforter framed his head and shoulders, a match for the chaotic shock of Clanahan's ruined hair. He in no way preened to himself, taking credit for the slow, almost dopey, blink and flutter of the other man's eyes. Clanahan lay full length across his bed, head propped up in the downy fluff of a pillow, strong arms wrapped around it like a lover.

More than anything, Ethan did not imagine what it would feel like to be that pillow.

"I have to go," he repeated. He told himself to get moving but his body remained frozen. Clanahan watched him with bright, pale eyes, every inch a predator. He supposed this made him the gazelle. He might have liked it, just a little.

Clanahan's nostrils flared, Ethan watched him draw in a deep, shuddering breath—scenting the air. He was reminded once against of the state of his skin: flushed, sticky and starting to dry. He grimaced.

"Mind if I use your shower?"

For a split second it looked like Clanahan _did_ mind but eventually the wolf just shrugged a little and shut his eyes. Ethan took that as _close enough_ and slipped out of the room.

He cleaned up as quickly and thoroughly as he could manage, all but scrubbing his skin raw, until it was shiny pink and free of come. It took a little bit to recover all of his clothes. In the bedroom, Clanahan looked like he'd fallen asleep. Ethan didn't feel like testing that assumption.

When he'd slipped from the house he remembered that he hadn't driven himself to his partner's townhouse; had in fact been kidnapped. Irritably, he pulled out his phone and called his cab company.

Ethan was a little over a quarter of an hour late to the restaurant, but at least wearing a clean shirt he'd stolen from Clanahan's closet. When Christophe caught a look at his approach his eyebrows wrinkled the smooth line of his forehead.

"Is that blood?" he whispered furiously.

"What?" Ethan blinked down, he'd been so sure he'd left the worst of his ruined clothes at Clanahan's. Slim fingers pointed to a rusty smudge of color along the bottom edge of his lapel. Ethan jerked the jacket off of his shoulders and slung it across the back of his chair.

"Better?"

"You didn't use to come to dinner covered in blood," Christophe said a little disdainfully.

"What dinners?" he grumbled back waspishly.

The arrival of their server to take drink orders interrupted them. When she'd disappeared again, silence reigned over the intimate table for two. Rico's was nice, American without too much pretension—not entirely the sort of place Ethan would have expected from Christophe in other words, not the sort of place you'd expect from a well power lawyer. It seemed like this really _might_ be a thank you dinner in deference to Ethan's own tastes.

Christophe took a measured drink from his table water; it looked casual but Ethan caught a flicker of calculation in his eyes.

"Are you going to tell me about your day then?" he asked, tilting his head and smiled at Ethan. The room was dim and intimately lit, soft candlelight flickered across the sharp planes of Christophe's face.

"Do you want me to?" the waiter set a scotch and soda down on the table by his hand. Ethan murmured a heartfelt _thank you_ and drank.

"Well, it _is_ the sort of thing people do. Whatever it was must have been exciting if you got blood all over you, yes?"

Ethan sputtered, "You say like I murdered someone! And it wasn't all over me. Over my jacket."

"I never said that, darling."

He huffed, "I got hit in the face by a suspect." Ethan could see where Christophe smothered a genuine looking laugh.

"Oh dear," he reached across the table and touched his thumb gently against the edge of the swelling below Ethan's eye. Ethan tried not to flinch away. He glanced up, Christophe's eyes were flat but his tone consoling, "poor thing. Does this happen often?"

Ethan cut his eyes away.

"You always were a bit terrible at taking care of yourself—I remember when you goaded Buzzy Felts the winter you were twelve. He spent the rest of December shoving you into snowbanks."

"And you short sheeted all his bed clothes until he finally left me alone," Ethan replied grudgingly.

Christophe did chuckle that time. He stole Ethan's scotch and took a small sip, flicking his tongue flirtatiously at the tim in the exact same spot Ethan had just had his mouth seconds before.

"I have missed your brand of abrasive antics dearest."

This statement gave Ethan pause. He took his drink back from Christophe. He was having a hard time getting a read on the other man's mood. The whole set up smacked of farce, complete with Ethan inevitably stuck with the bill at the end of the night. Yet, there was a curious tension in Christophe's shoulders, the way he seemed determined to have a real conversation for once—to, what, reminisce apparently?

Ethan swallowed the dregs of his drink, caught their server's eye and motioned for another.

Across the table, Christophe had splayed open a menu and appeared to be studying the entrées with intent. Ethan felt off balance—his face ached, throbbing in time with his pulse, he felt a trickle of sweat break out along his hairline and make an escape for his borrowed collar. He was tired, all his energy and the anger from earlier milked out of him, leaving him stumbling on unknown, unsteady ground at every turn so far today.

"I hear the foie gras here is—"

"I hate duck."

"Do you? And why is that? What did a duck ever do to you darling?" Christophe's expression quirked up into the distinctive, angular lines of a smirk.

"What are you doing Chris?" Ethan asked, he knew he sounded flat and rough, like he did coming off a bad seventy-two hour shift.

Christophe, by contrast, sounded perfectly put together, perfectly sincere when he replied, "I told you—"

"Seriously, whatever this is, just tell me, I want to know. Do you really want me to start talking about mid-life crises again? Because I will and you certainly haven't given me any reason to think otherwise."

Christophe frowned. Their server set a fresh drink down in front of Ethan and before she could leave, the other man sat up and grasped her delicately by the wrist.

"Fetch me a vodka martini, dirty, thanks." Christophe studied Ethan silently. In return, he pulled a terrible face and started eating all of the sliced focaccia bread on the table, sloppily dipping it in balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

"Well?" he asked when the bread was all gone.

Christophe's expression had slipped from contemplative straight into disapproval. For Ethan, it was familiar, almost comforting. Chris had always been a master at skirting the line between refined pretension and disgusting party boy, where never the twain shall meet. Ethan, on the other hand, had never managed anything other than the life of a raver and later a professional flirt married (for all intents and purposes) to his occasionally dangerous job.

"There's no need to act like a child," Christophe admonished.

"There's no need to dissemble either, hasn't stopped you though, has it?" Ethan sniped back.

"Can I interest either of you gentlemen in appetizers this evening?" their waiter asked, appearing at the side of the table silently.

Christophe quirked a curious brow at him but Ethan remained stony faced until the other man gave up, ordering for both of them.

The evening passed quietly, the both of them drinking a little more than they might have, otherwise. And in Ethan's case, sullenly picking at his food when it came. He replied in grunts and monosyllables when Christophe tried to make small talk, asking about his job, the city. The elephant in the room, Ethan's spoken and unspoken _why are you here? Why?_

Christophe gave up, signaling for the check and putting it all on his AMEX. Ethan stabbed at the piece of cheesecake he'd asked for, taking large bites of cake and chocolate, tasting none of it. Christophe reached across the table without warning and arrested the motion of his fork where he was picking apart the dessert.

"You'll ruin in."

Ethan stopped, feeling startled, surprised by the small note of genuine hurt in the other man's voice. He didn't pull away but he did set the fork down on the plate, abandoning the mutilation of his food. He felt guilty all of a sudden. Christophe had tried to have a nice evening, picking a restaurant that suited Ethan's preferences, buying him drinks and picking up the tab without batting an eye.

Christophe made to pull away, Ethan let go of his fork and slid his fingers between Christophe's. He startled, shot his eyes up to meet Ethan's, frowning a little.

"You look like shit," he said to cover his surprise.

Ethan winced.

"Trust me, it looks as bad as it feels."

"Poor thing," he murmured, touching his thumb to the corner of Ethan's mouth, dragging the pad of his finger across the plush bow of his lower lip. Ethan shivered, parting his lips; his eyes slid closed. He leaned into the touch and sighed. Time slowed, warm breath ghosted across his face.

He thought of skin, the soft-rough texture of strong fingers touching him, hands bracing him. Ethan flicked his tongue between his lips, tasting.

"Darling."

Christophe's voice slid across his nerves like an all too familiar caress but the flavor was all wrong, the hands touching him too slender and coy, the tone too knowing and refined.

"Let me take you home."

Ethan jerked back, sliding his eyes away.

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

Christophe sighed, exasperated. "What have I done this time then?"

"We're not dating." Ethan felt the need to clarify all of a sudden.

"Of course we aren't," Christophe replied, like the suggestion was absurd. "All I'm trying to do is have a nice evening."

"But _why?_ "

"Why _not_? This is the sort of thing friends do. We're friends, aren't we?"

That was a very good question. They had been friends once, if never much more than that—friends with benefits if you will. But that was—eight years was a long time to go without seeing or speaking to someone, and Ethan wasn't sure if you could just show up one day and expect to pick up where you left off with someone after so long.

Christophe was much the same person he remembered. More successful, filled out to the point he was more lithe than lean and more richly dressed, but the essentials seemed pretty unchanged; he still yo-yoed between snide personalities as quickly as whims.

Ethan, on the other hand, felt changed and far removed from that boy he'd been back in Toronto. He'd spent nearly a decade alone, making his own decisions, working, taking care of himself and his needs. He didn't _need_ Christophe to do those things anymore. He didn't need Christophe to feed him and fuck him and play party director with his evenings.

"Friends?" He pushed his dessert plate away, wadded up his napkin and stood. "Maybe, but not how we used to be. I—that just isn't going to work anymore Chris. I'm going to go for a walk. I guess I'll see you back at the apartment."

He left.

#

Patrick lay in the wreckage of his bed. He watched Ethan slip through the dim light. The shower switched on. Then, a few minutes later, he heard the other man picking up and dropping articles of clothing in the hall. He reemerged, hair damp and dark against his forehead, wearing boxers and studying the remains of his ruined shirt.

"Mind if I borrow something?" Ethan asked quietly.

Pat gestured at his closet and closed his eyes against the sight of his partner slipping into one of his own button downs, the shoulders a little too loose but the cuffs falling to the soft curve of his wrists.

Ethan—no, _Ellison_ once more—left, the front door _snicking_ closed behind him. Pat clutched the pillow to his chest and opened up his hearing. He could make out the soft lull of Ellison's voice as he called for a cab. It wasn't long before it arrived and sped away with a catch and a sputter.

The bedroom reeked with their combined scents. The sweat and semen had dried tacky and was starting to itch a little on his skin. He should get up and shower before it became unbearable but he felt lethargic. All the muscles in his body stretched out long and loose across his mattress. He felt suspended from the world, drifting in the lingering endorphin rush; so unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Pat curled tighter, wanting desperately to hold on to this illusive feeling. The wolf rumbled quietly in his chest, smug and satisfied. He felt—content.

He rolled out of the bed, burying his face in his hands, groaning. All of those good feelings drained out of him in a rush, leaving him shaky and breathless.

"Shit, what the hell have I done?"

He scrubbed away all external evidence of recent activities, taking a course brush to his nails, scratching fresh lines into his shoulders, across his abdomen. Despite all of his best efforts, Pat could still smell Ethan on him, feel the other man coursing under his skin, through his veins. All he could think of: flashes of labored breath, the texture of skin beneath his tongue and the feel of it yielding beneath his frantic grasp.

Pat pulled out of his closet old, familiar clothes—worn jeans and a police academy hoodie—and left the apartment. He couldn't stand to linger there a second longer.

His thoughts were heavy, whirling and whirling around this one idea: he'd just slept with his partner. He'd just _slept_ with Ethan Ellison. Twenty-nine, unmated, and he'd—Pat folded his body down into the driver's seat of the Camaro, feeling heavy, his throat tight and eyes hot.

"God damn it, what have I done," he whispered.

Moving on automatic, he turned over the engine and didn't really come back to himself until he was parked in his parent's driveway. There were only two other cars visible, his mother's Volvo and Grace's ancient VW Rabbit (acquired with pack babysitting money when she was sixteen for the irony). He sat, stiff and cold in the gathering dusk, unable to actually force himself out of the car. He listened to the engine tick down and swallowed thickly.

"Dear? Are you going to come inside?"

His mother's voice floated down from the front porch. It didn't exactly spur him into motion but Pat was finally able to stumble out into the air. Halting steps lead him inside the house where it was bright and warm, everything glowing comfortable and familiar. Rich smells of pasta and tomato wafted through the hall and his stomach growled, a reminder that he'd never gotten around to eating before or after.

"Look what the dog dragged in. Twice in one week? This has to be a record," Grace said, passing him on the way out of the dining room. "You hard up for food lately or something?" She winked and didn't wait for a response.

"Patrick?" his mother's touch was a soft shock to his racing system. Pat flinched away before he could school the reaction and watched her expression grow worried and clouded. "What's the matter? Your heart is racing, has something hap..." she trailed off. He could tell the moment she caught the scent, her eyes widening the barest fraction in response.

He couldn't breath, couldn't meet her eyes. Pat swallowed convulsively around the hard lump in his throat and cast his eyes down to the floor. A strong, slender hand grasped his shoulders and maneuvered him into the study; the door clicked shut behind them and locked.

"Sit." His mother put them side by side on the plush window seat. Pat shivered at the hint of chill seeping through the window glass. He felt a trickle of moisture slide down his cheek.

"Oh honey, what happened?"

"I didn't—I don't—" Pat choked on his words and laughed raggedly.

"Breathe," she said and drew him closer, soft hands ghosting across his face and pulling his head down onto her shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

Instead of answering he buried his face in the warm skin at her neck, gasping quietly for air. His shoulders shook.

"Patrick, _Pat_ , tell me what's happened. Has someone..."

"No," he denied vehemently, sure he wanted nothing to do with the end of that sentence. "No, it was me. I've done something...shameful," Pat whispered. He couldn't stand to see her face, the inevitable disappointment and disgust once he had explained. Feeling cowardly, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Start at the beginning." Hands stroked through his hair, brushing it away from his hot skin.

"I can't—I don't know why we. One minute we were screaming at each other and the next...he kissed me."

"That doesn't sound so terrible."

"I kissed him back," he confessed in a rush, "I fu—" he stumbled over the word, gritting his teeth and pulling back, angled his body away. "I fucked him."

His mother was quiet for a long, terrible minute.

"I fucked him. I didn't hesitate, not for a minute. I just couldn't stop touching him, kissing him, until we'd—How could...I'm sorry." Hot, stinging tears welled up and blurred his vision. Pat hung his head and shuddered. "God I'm so sorry."

"You're talking about your new partner? What was his name, Ethan?"

He nodded, mute.

"Your magician."

"Not mine," Pat denied.

"Are you sure about that?" his mother asked. She reached across the space he had made and took his larger her hand in slender one. Familiar calluses, the result of bad habits and too much writing, soothed his trembling skin.

"What?" he asked, bewildered.

"I said, how are you so certain he isn't yours?"

"Because...because."

"Because he's your partner, or because he's a magician?"

"Does it matter?" he asked, full of confusion, he screwed up the courage to turn and his mother caught his eye. She didn't look disgusted, or even disappointed, just curious. He frowned.

His mother, alpha, wife, mother, Teagan Clanahan held the gaze of her eldest son and smiled.

"It does when both of those are terrible reasons."

"Reasons for what?"

"Reasons to deny yourself."

Pat sat back, shocked. He gaped at her and sputtered, " _'Deny'_ myself? That's exactly what—"

"It never goes well when we try to deny our nature, you know that. You can't ignore the wolf inside you, Patrick."

"What does my wolf have to do with anything? This...this was a mistake! A _human_ mistake."

His mother tilted her head, considering. She ran her thumbs under his eyes, smearing away the moisture there. Her next words were measured, careful, "Dry your eyes, and tell me, why was it a mistake?"

"Because!"

"You keep saying that, but it's not reason. Now use your words." She smirked softly.

"How could it be anything else? It's like you said, my wolf, my nature—we don't sleep with people we haven't... _chosen_."

"But you did choose him, didn't you?"

"What?" He drew back sharply. "No!"

Her hand slipped down and pressed warmly against his thundering heart. She closed her eyes. "Can you feel him, here? Do you feel the way his heart pumps the blood through his veins, can you feel the spark of thought and desire?"

Pat shivered and whined softly, hunched, shaking his head.

"Liar."

"No! I didn't choose—"

"I think your wolf did, sweetheart. Now, chin up and stop apologizing."

Pat just shook his head, denial on the tip of his tongue and protest in every line of his body. He frowned harder at his mother's knowing look.

"You're wrong."

She shrugged like it was inconsequential. "Maybe I am. I've never met your Ethan Ellison, I only know what you've told me. And I'm only your mother, what do I know?"

"You're wrong," he repeated, weaker this time. Too bad he had the sudden, sinking, certainty that she might be right. His heart shuddered and tripped double-time beneath his ribs. His wolf snapped and whuffled, all lazy, lolling tongue and complacency.

Teagan laughed at him, but softly and without any real derision. She cuffed the back of his head, a wolf mother showing her affection.

"Go clean yourself up, then get your butt to the dinner table." She let him go and slid silently out of the study.

Pat sniffed into the cuff of his hoodie and followed her instructions without complaint. If a little bit of his father's cooking couldn't make him feel better after that too honest exchange, nothing would.

#

Ethan started walking. Rico's was in a trendier part of Fremont, fewer students and more hipster graduates, rubbing elbows with a side street of themed dance clubs instead of pubs.

He dodge a laughing crowd of wannabe ravers, dressed up in black and shimmering dark fabrics, too tall heels and ironic sneakers that probably cost two hundred dollars. They were loud and bright arguing something that sounded like books or philosophy but as easily could have been an underground band named after fucking _Flowers of Algernon,_ something equally ridiculous.

He ambled south on Wallingford, thinking vaguely that he was close to Gas Works park but moving, putting one foot in front of the other, without any real destination in mind.

The sun finally set behind the crest of downtown and the tallest commercial buildings in the city proper. It was a clear night, no clouds, a fat white moon rising almost full and a smattering of stars visible through the light smog and after burn of city lights. Everything smelled like salt and wet pavement and garbage.

Seattle may not have been his hometown but Ethan liked to think that he'd made it _his_. His town, his home.

He'd spent eight years learning the twists and turns of living here, how it was a major metropolis and unlike any other major city he's ever visited at the same time. The pomp and flash of Seattle is hidden beneath clean energy, shiny espresso joints and gleaming tech stores. Designer clothes rubbed elbows with second hand treasures on the same body and there was no scene but the underground scene. People walked and biked places, not because they had to, not just because it was impossible to keep a car in the city, but because it was environmentally friendly and other things like Good For You.

It was a city that hit it big in the tech boom without letting it go to their heads, who never bent beneath the glitz and glitter of gouache consumerism.

Sometimes when work got heavy or he felt lonely, especially early on in his time there, Ethan used to head down to the pier and sit in the rain. He'd watch the lazy pecking of gulls feeding out of garbage skips, smell the salty musk of the Puget Sound and boat oil and fish. Sit soaked through to his skin, and watch the soft harbor waves lap against his family's empty moorings.

Ethan didn't know what it was like to sail around the world, to live with a deck under his feet and the ocean spreading out large and unfathomable in every direction. Sometimes though, he liked to dream up false histories and imagine what it would have been like—if his mother had carried him to term without ever marrying his father, if she had won the custody battle instead of the Pelletiers. His Uncle Eoin hadn't told him much, at the funeral, about why she'd left the sea and headed inland, how she'd wound up tied to a man like his father. In Ethan's estimation, his Uncle Eoin was a bit of a romantic, muttering something about following the wind and her heart, telling him the heart was a funny organ with a mind of it's own—it always surprised you.

Their last night together, the day after they spread his mother's ashes on the waves, Eoin had sat in his houseboat and drunk scotch from the bottle (more than was probably advisable for anyone at sea) and rambled about _fate_ like it was a fickle mistress.

The Ellisons weren't magic, not like the Pelletier family; they were water gypsies, which Ethan liked to think was a special kind of magic. His mother, in this regard, had been different: the first real witch born to the family in over a hundred years.

Maybe this was explanation enough for why she'd made the decisions she had, why she'd made so many mistakes and why she'd died when she was barely thirty-nine years old. He couldn't say for certain, after all, he'd barely known her, and all he had left of her was a comfortable monetary inheritance, an extended family he saw only sporadically, and a few pieces of costume jewelry.

Ethan had never missed his life back in Canada, not even the parts with Christophe. They weren't _forever_ , not by a long shot. Seeing Christophe now, in the home he had made for himself, left Ethan feeling on edge. He didn't like this, the way Old seemed determined to crash into New. And try as he might, he didn't buy it either, this idea Christophe kept peddling like they were still friends, like they were anything to each other anymore. A tiny part of Ethan, feeling petulant and out of sorts, whispered that Christophe didn't have the right to come slinking back into his picture.

He slipped across the deserted street and down an alley. He'd walked further than he realized or planned to, almost to the park in fact. He could see a sign for it up ahead. The night felt still, almost heavy, the buildings on either side looming dark and silent. Ethan shivered, less from cold, more from an inexplicable feeling on the back of his neck—like eyes watching him. He clenched his hands into fists inside his pockets, feeling naked without the familiar weight of his gun—left forgotten and locked away in his desk drawer at work along with his bloody badge. Ethan couldn't put a finger on what exactly triggered them, but his instincts peaked, screaming _danger danger danger_.

There was no other warning, just a shift in air pressure behind him and the nearly imperceptible pad of footsteps before a large, heavy mass struck him from behind. Ethan stumbled, his shoulder hit the alley and he could hear the sound of cloth giving way beneath rough brick. His shout of surprise cut off before it could hit the night, all the air knocked out of his lungs.

Hot breath against the back of his neck, claws scrabbling at his clothes, a terrible strength knocking him further into the alley, Ethan's mind took him back to the psychic imprint from the crime scene. An empty sky flickered above his head, stars appearing and disappearing. He staggered under the weight of his attacker, trying to twist away. He couldn't—there wasn't—his mind sheered between memory and the moment; there was no steady ground beneath his feet.

An inhuman snarl split the night. Goosebumps shivered across Ethan's skin, sweat broke out along the nape of his neck. He scrambled away from the sound, desperate, his converse slipping on the damp cement. Grit and rock bit the soft flesh of his palms.

"Shit," he coughed, gasping for air.

His attacker got a handhold in his suit coat, hauling him up and into the wall with little audible effort. Ethan curled his arms protectively around his head, taking the worst of the impact on his shoulder. Claws tore into his clothes and found flesh and bone; they felt like hot knives sliding through his skin.

In his mind's eye, he saw the hulking shape stalking Matilde Walker, cornering her, pouncing and rending her to pieces. Ethan felt the sting of blood, a hot warmth against his side and running down his arms. He struggled futilely in this deadly embrace, there wasn't enough air in his lungs to scream. He had the sudden, shocking clarity that if he didn't do something _right now_ , he was going to die assuredly as she had.

Ethan reached into his veins desperately, looking for that spark of magic he'd always found so elusive. With a thought, he followed the hint of energy from the tips of his fingers down into his center mass, where his heart hammered against his fragile ribcage. Ethan struggled, slipping, the magic flickered just out of his reach. He could feel his strength sluggishly escaping his flagging body.

Sharp teeth pricked the delicate skin of his neck and _bit_.

Ethan gasped wetly and watched the spark snuff out.

"No," he protested weakly and hung, impotent, in the literal jaws of death. Blood welled up in a ring around his neck until it backslid into his hair, thick, warm and terrifying. Ethan had never felt so much like... _prey_.

The teeth dropped him without warning, the claws pulling free so that the beast—god, it had to be the monster they were looking for—could shove him roughly onto his back. Ethan cried out from being jostled like a rag doll. His chest and shoulder licked trails of fire along his nervous system. Above his head he blinked and the world resolved into _now_ , a low moon temporarily hidden behind a patch of clouds, just enough to obscure the light.

He couldn't see through the sweat and blood and tears, feeling light headed, but he could feel tension strum between his body and the beast's as it crouched. Ethan wondered what it was waiting for.

The clouds rolled slowly past and Ethan blinked up into ghostly eyes, light reflected green off of amber irises. He jerked back hard into the pavement, shocked at the mangled features of his attacker: the bones in its face grotesquely distended into a partial snout to accommodate rows of sharps teeth, raised hair along the centerline and the sides of the face and a heavy, furrowed brow.

Ethan couldn't say that he'd ever come face to face with a werewolf under a full moon but he _had_ done the obligatory unit on them in school, read _Ajalugu Libahunt_ in the original Estonian—as though his professors weren't sadists already—seen the sketches and old tintype photographs from enthusiasts and hunters alike. Unlike the worst of the myths surrounding lycanthropy, modern day werewolves just turned into larger than average _wolves_ , sometimes so similar in feature and coat that they could be mistaken for zoo escapees.

The creature before him bore a horrible resemblance to Lucas the Elder's _Werewolf_. As he stared up at it in fixed horror, the creature reared back, throwing it's head up until it's profile stood out stark against a newly revealed moon. The wind shifted, nostrils flared, a speck of deep red against the black night.

He knew in his gut this was the only chance he'd get, the only reprieve. Ethan forced his arm to move, pawing desperately at the ankle sheath he used to conceal a short, iron infused k-bar. It was all he had, it would have to do.

Whatever it smelt on the air seemed to wind the creature up; it rolled back its head and howled. The sound was terrible, nothing like a wolf and eerily human. Ethan gripped his weapon in a tight, wet grip and thrust up into the soft flesh of the monster's bared throat. Hot, salty blood spurted out around his hand and onto his face but he didn't dare close his eyes or turn away.

The howl cut off into a vicious snarl, and he felt his shoulder give as the beast wrenched away. Ethan lost his grip on the knife and collapsed, breathing raggedly around this fresh pain. The sound of rushing blood—his heartbeat—filled his ears. His head felt woozy from blood loss and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He couldn't be sure what was happening but he kept breathing.

And breathing.

And breathing.

Ethan blinked his eyes closed and sank into the unforgiving ground. He spared a brief semi-hysterical thought for Clanahan, wondering how the man would take losing another partner like this.

Didn't really seem fair...to either of them.

## **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

##

Pat woke with a start, his breath shuddering out of his lungs in a rush. He blinked into the darkness, bending his eyes and ears, trying to catch what it was that had disturbed him. Nothing moved in his flat or next door. The green digital face of the DVD player read 11:45 PM—he had dozed off on the sofa after coming back to his apartment.

He couldn't shake the feeling that something was _wrong_. And try as he might, he couldn't put his finger on what that something _was_. His wolf paced restlessly in the back of his head. A cool sweat dried tacky on the back of his neck.

Groaning, Pat levered his tense body into an upright position. He winced as his vertebrae cracked with the movement.

"Too old to be sleeping on the couch," he muttered.

Then he stumbled into his bedroom, the air still rank with the combined smells of dried sweat and come. _Ethan_ flooded his senses, almost overwhelming. It did little to soothe his wolf's irritation, the distinct smell of _mate_ in his territory.

Pat tried not to dwell on what that meant, his mother's words still loud in his ears as he ruthlessly stripped the sheets off the bed. He bundled up the soiled linens and left them in a sad heap on the hall floor, then he collapsed face first on the bare mattress. Pat forced his eyes closed, willing his mind to be quiet, just for a couple more hours.

#

Something was ringing. Pat twitched awake, startled back to consciousness by the persistent jangle of his phone vibrating in his pants pocket. He groaned and groped for the shrill little device. His sleepy fingers unlocked the screen.

"Hello?" he grunted, mouth dry and voice sleep-rough.

"Clanahan!" It was his captain. "Get your ass out of bed and get down to Harborview Medical Center."

"What? What's going on?"

"Ellison was just admitted to the emergency room there. They called to notify the department."

Pat felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. The world narrowed. He realized he had a death grip on his phone when the plastic creaked. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Pat tried to make his body relax; his instincts were screaming at him, so loud and so fast he felt frozen, unable to move one way or the other.

He croaked, "What?" stupidly.

"Ellison, your bloody partner, what the hell is going on? Are you—" Jordan's tense, agitated tone got through the incipient panic. Pat shivered.

"No! Sorry you—what time is it?" he pulled the phone away, the screen read 3:02 AM. He'd been asleep for just a handful of hours.

"Clanahan?" Jordan sounded irritated by the time he put the receiver back up to his ear. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah, Harborview. What the hell happened?"

"I don't know yet, detective, that's why I'm sending you." She hung up.

Pat rolled off the bed and went looking for his shoes. Panic danced around the edges of his thoughts, his breath misted white in the cool air. Without thinking about it, he dug out his old magnetic hood light and slapped it onto the top of the Camaro, letting the frenetic whir of the police light and sound wash over him. It was a soothing familiarity.

The morning was cold and damp as he pulled up outside the ER, leaving the car parked crooked in the empty lot. He flashed his badge at the bay attendants.

"Officer?"

"I'm looking—I got a call that a police officer was brought in earlier this evening?" The paramedic pointed him to a nurses' station inside.

"Can I help you?" a tired looking middle-aged woman asked.

"I'm looking for Ethan Ellison. He's with the South Precinct, SPD, I'm his partner."

She eyed him but also started typing into her desk computer.

"Can you at least tell me what he was brought in for? Is it serious?" he asked, teeth gritted. He wanted to see Ethan _now_ and see for himself that the other man was alive, hear his heart beating. The hospital was full of unpleasant smells: chemicals and human refuse and blood. It was worse than the morgue.

Pat didn't know what to think. Ethan had left him the previous afternoon to meet Christophe. What could have possibly happened after that to land him in the ER?

"He's in surgery."

"Where?"

"Theater 3—but sir, you can't go back there!"

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I'm not at liberty to release that information," she said, face closed off and settling into serious lines.

"But I'm his partner!" The nurse continued to look unimpressed and her attention slipped back to her computer. Pat fumbled with his badge, slapping it down on the counter.

"I'm Detective Patrick Clanahan, I have orders from our _Captain_ , Jordan Augustas, whom you people _called_ , to get a sit-rep on _Detective_ Ethan Ellison. I'm not trying to cause any problems but I need to know what's going on. He's a cop, for crying out loud." Pat was breathing hard by the time he finished, chest heaving, face flushed. His body vibrated with useless adrenaline. He tried to squash the rise of panicky bile at the back of his throat. The feeling was familiar, like the smell of hospital antiseptic and sickness.

Between one breath and the next, he was transported back to the night he got the call about Adam. His partner's body hadn't been found until almost seven in the morning, drained of blood in an alley back behind a dim sum. Paramedics had rushed him to Harborview before the sun could rise. In the end, Jordan had come to collect Patrick herself, showing up pale-faced on his parents' doorstep at the crack of dawn. She'd driven him to the hospital, sat with him in the waiting room while they kept a silent vigil to see if Adam had been turned. Sunset had come, though, and Adam's body had remained cold and still.

"Clanahan, report!" Jordan's voice, here in the present, jerked Pat out of his bead and back into his body.

"Captain." He turned to meet her. "They won't tell me anything."

Augustas flashed her ID at the dull eyed nurse. "Detective Ethan Ellison, give me—"

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I can only release that information to next of kin."

Something churned in Pat's gut.

Jordan jerked her chin sharply at the computer. "Check the records, he doesn't have any next of kin. As his ranking officer all information should be passed on to myself or his partner." She indicated Pat. The nurse frowned at her monitor, glancing back and forth between them. Jordan's face remained calm, assured, serene next to his no doubt visible agitation.

"All right," the nurse said, "a delivery man found your detective at 2:38 AM. Paramedics reported him in alive at the scene and he was rushed here. They took him straight into surgery. It's probably going to be a few hours before we can tell you anything else."

"His injuries?"

"Extensive blood loss—" Jordan put a restraining hand on Pat's arm. "Lacerations to his abdomen, chest and left side as well as his right shoulder."

"What kind of lacerations?" he demanded.

The nurse dredged up a contrite look. "You'll have to wait for the doctor's report. I'm sorry, but if you'd like to take a seat? It'll be more comfortable."

His captain's hand on his shoulder felt like iron, intractable. She guided him away from the nurses' station and into the designated waiting area. A dozen people filled the hard plastic chairs in various states of misery, both physical and emotional.

"Jesus, Clanahan, sit down before you break something." Augustas maneuvered them into adjoining seats near the back wall.

"You didn't have to come, Captain."

She grimaced. "Good thing I did, though."

Pat's thoughts kept racing; it was hard to grab hold of one long enough to examine it, his instincts putting his senses on edge and dulling complex brain functions. It was a survival mechanism, he knew that, a wolf's natural response to shock or a threat to themselves or their—

"What was he doing last night, Pat?"

Pat jerked his train of thought up sharply. "He went to dinner. I don't—I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon."

"After he provoked Ilan Maccabee," Jordan said blandly.

He winced. "Provoked is a strong word."

"Oh? And what would you call that little stunt you pulled yesterday? The Maccebee pack's lawyers came down to the station and reamed my ass after the two of you disappeared." She slanted a calculating glance his direction. It made him want to fidget—there was no possible way she could know what had transpired in the dark privacy of Pat's bedroom. But that didn't make her discerning eye any less sharp.

"He didn't touch him. Ilan Maccabee fled his residence when we tried to question him and he _assaulted_ Ethan after a few routine inquiries."

Jordan snorted and slouched back in her chair. "Don't tell me, another werewolf hot head."

Pat rolled his eyes, feeling a bit of his tension sliding away despite himself, relaxing into their comfortable back and forth.

"That's speciesist."

"I know." She shot him a quick, cheeky grin then sobered again. "His lawyers are going to have him out before 9:00 AM, you know."

Pat dredged up a disbelieving look.

Jordan shrugged. "They'll try to charge us with intimidation or misconduct. Get a judge to roll on it, and we won't see him again until we get a court hearing."

"He struck an officer."

"And you know the kind of clan money these guys have to throw around. The two of you already had Maccabee's gruff up over this case, how did you expect he would react to having one of his nephews hauled in for questioning?"

Pat slumped.

"Don't get me wrong, one of the ADA's will pursue charges, but in the meantime we need to be more worried what this means for your case." She shot him a questioning look.

"We're still waiting for a guy to get back to us on what Matilde was working on in her spare time. Might be nothing."

"Or it could be something," she finished knowingly. "And Ilan? Get anything out of him before he punched out your partner?"

"A bunch of angry denials. I think he's afraid of something, though, something scarier than us. He reeked of fear and submission."

"Well that sounds uselessly ominous." Jordan pressed the fleshy part of her thumb into the bridge of her nose and sat quietly for a few minutes. The measured rhythm of her breathing calming.

"I'm going to send a couple uniforms down here to keep an eye on things. They can take Ellison's statement when he's conscious. We need to know if this attack is related to the case."

Pat nodded, mute.

"Pat?"

He met her serious eyes.

"This isn't like Adam, you know that, right?"

He froze. Of course this wasn't the same situation. It felt—worse almost and his heart flipped over, a nauseating weight, at what that could mean for him. For both of them. He was terrified of his mother's words and their implications.

A wolf's heart was not a complicated organ; composed mostly of animal instinct. Where humans worried and schemed, hung up on things like relative attractiveness and mutual interests or their potential partner's 401K, a wolf ran on scent and strength and some intangible certainty. A wolf could recognize their mate from the briefest of encounters. The wolf could _know_ , game over, waiting for the human mind to catch up with the inevitable.

It was also true that Pat was getting old for an unmated wolf. He heard the whispers from other pack members, speculating. With every fresh season it seemed more and more certain he would remain a lone wolf, mateless, unfit to take his mother's place as alpha despite his blood and strength. A wolf's real power was in the pack, their strength always at its peak when they ran in harmony with their...soulmate. A wolf unsuited to bond with another soul was weak, at the end of the day, unfit.

That his wolf might have chosen now, after all this time, might have settled on this—whiny, imperfect magician. He didn't know whether to scream or howl his frustration.

"I'm going to head into the office. Go home, try and catch some sleep while you're waiting," Jordan said, interrupting his thoughts once more. "I'll tell the nurse in admin to call you when Ellison's out of surgery."

"I think," Pat swallowed, his voice rough, "I think I'll stick around here and wait."

Jordan's face gave nothing away but he could tell she didn't approve. A thread of worry underscoring her scent, beneath the familiar pine woods and clove cigarettes. She nodded and stood. He watched her trench coated figure disappear through a set of swinging double doors.

The hours passed slowly. There was no chance in hell of him sleeping here, surrounded by so many people. A handful of homeless men and women dozed or muttered to themselves, rubbing elbows with wide-eyed and worried family members. Pat watched them come and go through half slitted eyes, sinking dully into the restless energy of his wolf. He paced and fidgeted and snapped angrily all in the relative safety of his mind, revealing neither a twitch nor a worried grimace to the outside world. It was as close to control as he could muster.

A little after 7:00 AM, he caught a nurse, the same one from before, pointing at him across the waiting area. A doctor—tall, tanned and with blood on his scrubs—approached him.

"Detective?"

Pat shot to his feet despite the weariness that had started to settle in his bones.

"Clanahan."

"You're here for Detective Ellison?"

"That's right. How is he?"

"We just put him in recovery."

The ball of anxiety in Pat's chest loosened, just a little.

"He'll be sedated for a few more hours."

"What happened?"

"You'll have to ask Mr. Ellison that when he wakes up, but it looks like an animal attack to me. The biggest problem was blood loss. He was lucky, Detective, your friend came very close to a perforated lung or intestine, or both. The most significant deep tissue damage was concentrated in his shoulder; he might need another surgery down the line, physical therapy at least, but he's alive and he should make a good recovery. We just need to keep him quiet and watch for infection." The doctor laid a firm, reassuring hand on Pat's shoulder and squeezed lightly.

Pat's phone started vibrating before he could ask anything else. The number was unknown but he knew he couldn't risk ignoring it when it might have something to do with their case. The doctor waved him off and left.

"Hello?"

"Uh, Detective Clanahan?"

"Anderson?"

"Yes? I mean, yes! Hey I finished that, uh, that project you asked me to look into." He sounded, not nervous, but definitely uncertain.

Pat cursed and hunched over his phone, looking around for a quiet corner. He found a chair at the back of the waiting room where he could keep an eye on the nurses' station and listen to Niall's report without being overheard.

Outside the sky was shrouded in dark grey clouds. They opened up, a chilly, spring shower starting with a drop here and there until it became a swift deluge. He stared out of the hospital window, watching the rain come down, tracing the meandering paths of drops down the glass. Then as quickly as it began, the rain stopped. He shivered.

#

He had been so sure he was going to die. Waking up, even for a minute, eyes gritty and throat closed off, Ethan almost wished he _had_ died. Death couldn't hurt worse than how he felt at this exact moment. His vision refused to focus but Ethan caught a smudgy blur moving off to one side, then the whole world slipped away into darkness again.

#

Pat took the elevator up one level to the ICU recovery rooms. Two badges from the South stood guard outside Room 305. One of them nodded at Pat's approach.

"Captain said you'd be around, Detective."

Pat glanced at the closed door, feeling suddenly and unaccountably nervous. "Has he woken up yet?"

The guy on the right—his name tag _Wilkins—_ shook his head. "Nothing that's stuck so far. You want to go in and see for yourself?"

Swallowing down his anxiety, he nodded and waited for the other uniform, _Bridges_ , to unlock the door. He nodded his thanks and closed it behind him. The lights were turned down low and the drapes drawn so that the interior of the recovery room was clothed in soothing blue shadows. It wasn't anything fancy, but the severity of his injuries and his status as a cop had secured Ethan a tiny private room.

Pat hovered by his bedside for a protracted moment. A heart monitor beeped, a respirator hissed up and down, and a half dozen IV lines ran fluids in and out of his partner's still body, including one for blood. He didn't need the scrolling EKG, he just had to close his eyes and he could hear the sluggish—but steady— _thud-ker-thud_ of the other man's heart.

The small room reeked, but underneath... Pat slipped into the visitor's chair until he was right up next to the bed. He breathed in deep, rooting out the weak traces of _Ethan_ below all the cloying smells of hospital. It was calming, like that first rush of caffeine in the morning or a slick of aloe across a sunburn.

Pat let the dark seep into his bones. All the tension drained out of his body, leaving him slumped low in the uncomfortable chair. Soft noises of nurses and visitors moving around in the hall filtered through the closed door, but they were easy enough to ignore. He tuned his senses onto Ethan like a dowsing rod and let his thoughts drift. Instinct would let him know if there was a threat or any significant change in his partner's physical status. For the moment he could just take a second and remember how to _breathe_.

#

When he woke again, the world was all soft cotton and darkness. Ethan had the distinct impression that he was floating several feet above his body, detached, disconnected. When he forced his eyelids open a minute or an hour or a year later, he was almost disappointed to find himself laid out flat on his back and very much still inhabiting his body.

There wasn't any pain exactly, it was more like he could feel the shapes where pain _should_ be and just...wasn't.

He took a deep breath and gagged. All at once he became aware of the hard implacable pressure in his throat, cutting off his oxygen. Ethan hacked and struggled to sit up, clawing at his face where the respirator parted his lips. Dark spots filled his blurry vision and there was no way for him to swallow his panic. Then warm hands caught him, helping him. He choked, his chest spasmed before the the slimy plastic slipped free. An alarm was ringing.

"What is going on in here?" Angry voices cut across the noise of a dozen monitors screaming.

"He woke up! He couldn't breathe!"

The warm hands were jerked away, left him feeling cold. Ethan tried to protest but his throat and chest felt raw, and he was still having a hard time breathing without hacking up a lung.

"You shouldn't be in here!"

"Sir, you need to leave."

"Can I get a light? It looks like his—"

"Detective, is everything all right?"

"No, everything—look will you just stop a second and look at my badge? This is my—" Ethan shivered a little at the sound of that hoarse growl, like gravel over silk. He knew that voice. He struggled against the impersonal hands on him, all of them unfamiliar and unwanted.

"Gerrof me." Talking felt excruciating.

"He couldn't breathe! Will you get your hands—"

"Doctor?"

Ethan got one of his hands fisted in someone's shirt and barked a sharp, "Get off!" and pushed the other person away. He tingled from the electricity shivering across his skin, a whisper of power so unexpected he barely even thought to try and contain it before it discharged. Sparks erupted in a shower next to him and every piece of equipment in the room flat lined before they fell silent.

"Jesus Christ! Grade 3 magical discharge, why the hell wasn't it in his—"

"Doctor!"

"Stop touching him—"

Ethan struggled to get his eyes and ears to focus on his surroundings. He _knew_ that voice, he wanted it closer, right up against his skin and reverberating in his bones.

"Pa—Patrick?"

The room kept spinning around him. The noise was painful, echoing around his skull, but suddenly soft warm hands were back on his skin, infinitely gentle. Ethan sighed a whisper of a groan into the contact and rolled his heavy head across the pillow until he caught sight of his partner's stupid—lovely—face.

"Patrick?" he whispered hoarsely. Fingers traced across his chilled skin, skimming his cheekbone and settling in the hollow of his throat, careful.

"Hey, I'm here. Just breathe, you're okay."

He went to grab the werewolf's hand and panicked a little when his right arm refused to move. Clanahan must have read his expression because his hand slipped around to the back of Ethan's head and _gripped_ firmly: a comfort and a reassurance.

"You're okay, they've got your shoulder braced pretty good." Clanahan smiled thinly, but there were dark circles under his eyes, Ethan noticed.

"I saw it."

Clanahan stiffened. "What?"

"Our monster, I saw it." The hand on his skin spasmed, once, then relaxed. Strong fingers combed through his hair.

"What was it?"

"Something new."

"Ethan?"

He shook his head fitfully, feeling the motion stretch the muscle and skin along his neck and shoulder.

"It wasn't a man but it wasn't—wasn't a werewolf either. It was like something caught in between." He coughed, his whole body contracting with it. At the edge of his attention he could hear the angry voices addressing his partner but the other man ignored them. His worried eyes never wavered from Ethan's face.

Focusing all his limited energy into the movement, he slipped his left hand across the gulf between them. His fingers caught on the chapped bow of Clanahan's bottom lip. The wolf sucked in a sharp breath. Ethan smiled a little at the memory of that mouth on his skin. How long ago had that been? How long had he been down for the count?

"It wasn't like you at all," he whispered.

Consciousness slipped between his fingers like water from a bowl and ran out.

## **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

##

The third time Ethan woke up he felt clearer. His throat ached a little and he recognized the soft-edged way a morphine drip managed to cushion the weight of the world, but his eyes were wide open and his head very firmly attached to the rest of his body.

He lay there in the scratchy hospital bed as he took an inventory of his condition. His right shoulder was immobilized, the arm strapped down to his chest. His side felt a little itchy and hot but it didn't hurt and his head only throbbed when he looked around. The worst of the discomfort was concentrated in his neck and throat.

He must have made some sort of pained noise because a cup full of ice chips appeared in his line of sight. Ethan followed the hand holding the cup up to his partner's schooled expression. The other man looked ragged, a far cry from comfortable and well-fucked.

"Hey." Ethan winced at the sound of his own voice and didn't protest when Clanahan's expression crumpled and he brought an ice cube up to Ethan's lips. It was blessedly, beautifully cool. He might have moaned a little at the sensation.

Clanahan flushed, looking away.

"Thanks." He accepted a couple more pieces—when had water ever tasted so good?—before he waved the werewolf off. "How long?"

"Since the attack? Over fourteen hours, we don't have an exact time. Officer Bridges is waiting outside to take your statement when you feel up to it." Clanahan hesitated, set the cup of ice aside and hunched forward in a fuck ugly chair; the thing looked like some sort of torture device to Ethan's drugged mind. "You said...you weren't very coherent, but you said you saw it. Our monster."

Memory blindsided Ethan. He breathed through it. Clanahan watched him like a hawk, expression turning worried the longer the silence stretched.

"Ethan?"

"I'm fine!" he shook himself, shivering out of his cool skin. A warm, tentative touch to his knuckles made his heart beat faster. Ethan turned his hand over and tangled his fingers with Patrick's. It was nice. Grounding. "I went for a walk," he murmured, slipping through the hazy rolodex of memory.

Patrick ran a rough thumb across his skin, back and forth.

"After dinner, I went for a walk and it came out of nowhere, hit me from behind. There's not a lot I can tell you."

"You said it was like something between a wolf and a man, do you remember?"

Ethan's eyes slipped closed. He remembered blood and pain and panic, teeth and claws and a beast that stood upright on two legs. "That sounds about right. Claws and teeth and a little too hairy around the face, like those old woodcuts you see in lithographs. You know what I'm talking about?"

His partner frowned, looking uncomfortable. "I should get Bridges. Hold on." He brought a uniformed officer back into the room. The new man, tall and broad like a linebacker quirked a wry grin in Ethan's direction and pulled out his logbook.

"Detective, you feeling awake enough to give me a statement?"

Ethan sighed but waved the guy forward. He spoke as clearly and succinctly as possible, narrating what he could remember and wondered if it sounded insane. Clanahan hovered on the far side of the room, listening but otherwise keeping his thoughts to himself.

"How do you feel?" he asked when Bridges had finished and left them alone again.

Ethan shrugged. "Fine, just my throat."

"That happens when you rip your respirator out."

"Did I? I don't really remember."

A nurse knocked and entered the private room. "Checks," she said and pulled out Ethan's chart, humming to herself. "How do you feel?"

He rolled his eyes. "Fine, like I was just telling my partner here."

"How's the pain on a scale of 1 to 10?" Her face pinched in a pantomime of concern.

"A three, maybe? Two and a half?"

She looked surprised. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," he said. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no not as such, it's just that your morphine's run out. You're due for a new dose."

He wiggled carefully, flexing his left side and noting the dull stretch of stitched up skin beneath heavy bandages. There were several dull aches running in lines down his side and a knotted ball of pressure in his shoulder but nothing sharp, nothing demanding a morphine drip. "Are you sure? I thought I just..." he glanced at Clanahan, noting his heavy brows, "lost some blood."

"It was more than a _little_ blood I'm afraid," the nurse tutted. "The doctor had to sew up most of your left side. It doesn't hurt at all?"

"A...little?"

"Do you mind if I check it?" She waited for his okay, deft hands pushing aside the thin hospital gown and picking the medical tape off his skin. The gauze came away to reveal shiny pink skin bisected by heavy dark medical thread. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, eyes wide. "Oh my."

"What?" He craned his head to get a look at the damage.

The nurse darted a quick glance over at Clanahan. "Your file didn't say."

"Say what?" Ethan demanded. He looked at his partner then back at the nurse. "What's wrong?"

She cleared her throat. "Nothing's wrong, Detective. In fact, you appear to be healing at a significantly expedited rate."

"What?"

She moved out of the way, revealing more of his uncovered side. Angry lines criss-crossed his skin but they were all mostly closed and healing. Ethan stared at the new skin. He couldn't quite understand what he was seeing.

The nurse smiled. She prodded at the stitches and made a couple notes in his chart. "That's definitely coming along nicely. If we'd known, the doctor would have used a different thread but no worries. Another hour or so and we should be able to come in and snip everything away. Won't that be nice?"

Ethan tried to reply but all he managed was a garbled exclamation. The nurse put his chart back in the bed rack and patted Clanahan's arm.

"You're doing just fine. Keep it up. You'll have him out of here in no time. If you're good on pain I'll go ahead and leave you be."

Ethan nodded mutely. Clanahan wouldn't quite meet his wide eyes and it made Ethan suspicious.

"What did she mean?" Ethan asked, fronting calm.

His partner shrugged and wandered over to the closed window. He drew away the curtain, letting in a sliver of late afternoon sunlight.

"Clanahan!"

"I don't know!"

Ethan felt certainty curl up in his gut. "You're lying." Irritated and clear headed now, he slid his legs out of the bed and stood. Clanahan shot him an anxious look and started to protest but Ethan ignored him, turned his back and started looking around for his clothes.

"God damn it, where are my pants?"

"I think they had to cut you out of them," Clanahan said.

Ethan wasn't sure if he was imagining the pained waver in the other man's voice but it made something hot and uncomfortable squeeze the air out of his chest. A small chest of drawers next to the bed held a pair of hospital scrub pants and a thin T-shirt. He jerked open the ties on his gown one handed, letting the flimsy fabric pool on the floor. The cool air raised goosebumps all along his skin.

"Jesus," Clanahan whispered.

Ethan glanced back over his shoulder and took in his partner's pole-axed expression, mouth open and eyes darkening as they raked greedily across the inked skin of his back. Ignoring him, Ethan pulled the disposable clothing over his narrow hips. The shirt presented a problem with his arm bandaged the way it was. He winced trying to drag it down over his head when steady hands took over the job for him, smoothing down his back in every pretense of settling the soft material. He shivered.

"Thanks."

"No worries," Clanahan's voice was low and a little rough.

"Are you going to try and stop me leaving?"

Hot air gusted across the back of his neck. The wolf's hands, having settled heavily on his waist, flexed. He was aware of how close Clanahan stood.

"Not if you can manage it without bleeding all over the place."

Ethan laughed. "Good. I need real clothes. You're taking me home. Give me your coat." He eased into the soft leather jacket Clanahan handed him and zipped it up over the hospital clothes. The uniforms outside were dismissed and a little cat-and-mouse got them signed out at the front desk without anyone asking questions.

"This is probably a bad idea."

Ethan slid into the Camaro and snorted. "Why? I don't know about you but I hate infirmaries."

"You were in a coma less than three hours ago."

"And now I'm magically all better." He shot Clanahan a narrow-eyed look that the other man refused to meet. "I'd rather not look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, we have work to do. Maybe I can do another locater spell, but for our suspect this time."

"You should rest."

"Just drive, we can argue about it when I'm wearing boxers again."

#

They had to park several blocks away from Ethan's apartment building. He bitched all the way down the street and up the stairs to his door. Clanahan hovered behind him, all but holding both arms out ready to catch him should his body collapse in the middle of the street. Ethan gritted his teeth against the urge to complain.

They'd returned his wallet and keys at the hospital. Now he unlocked the front door to his apartment and shuffled inside, Patrick a warm presence at his back. He was tired, worn down, and feeling a bit thin from his injuries. All Ethan wanted at that moment was a real pair of pants and something to eat, preferably something hot and comforting. He thought fondly of the potato-bacon soup from the bistro down the street. Maybe he could convince Patrick to run in there for food before they went back the station.

"I want lunch," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Lunch. Soup. I know a place, but clothes first. I'll hurry—what the fuck?" Ethan froze in the entryway, his mouth falling open in shock. Patrick ran into his back, almost knocking both of them off their feet before his hands landed on Ethan's waist, strong and steadying.

"Ethan?" Patrick froze, his fingers flexed. Ethan might have enjoyed it under different circumstances. As it stood, he felt far too much shock at the state of his living room for the contact to even register. He made a short, strangled sound in the back of his throat and tripped into the living room.

"Seriously, what the ever-loving-fuck?"

The living room looked like a small hurricane had blown through. His couch cushions had all been overturned, the pillows pulled off and abandoned on the floor, the drawers in the entertainment cabinet and side tables had been dumped out, and his books and DVDs had all been dislodged from their precise shelving.

"It looks like you've been robbed."

"Except the TV is still here and the deadbolt was locked." Ethan ran a shaking hand through his hair.

The kitchen was in a similar state: cupboards cleared, dishes left in careless and broken piles of ceramic, drawers dumped out on the floor.

Dread curdled in Ethan's gut, that feeling you get when you no longer feel safe in your own haven. Someone had come into his home and riffled through his life. Patrick grabbed his arm; his breath gusted warm across the shell of his ear.

"Someone else is here."

Ethan ground his molars together and flexed his hands, reaching out for his magic. It was a shock when the energy answered his call without hesitation. Electricity surged and coalesced along his skin, power dripping out of his fingertips. Patrick chuffed a soft breath.

"Let me—"

He didn't wait to hear the end of that sentence, stalking silently through his apartment towards the master bedroom. Patrick cursed and followed him. Ethan grabbed the door handle and took a deep, steadying breath. In the next instant, he flung the door open wide and curled his dominant hand in a ready position, braced for an intruder.

His things were a tangled mess, the floor covered in clothes and books and papers. Ethan expected a grubby thief dressed in black or maybe an adventurous homeless person in rags. He was not prepared to see Christophe staring at Ethan's personal laptop, jabbing at the keys.

"Care to explain what's going on?" Ethan asked, voice low. He felt like he was one wrong word away from calling forth a little fire and brimstone.

Christophe started. He shot a quick, guilty look at the two of them. Ethan felt his heart stop; that look told him everything he needed to know. He knew with absolute certainty there was no thief here except the one he'd let in himself.

Behind him, Clanahan growled soft and low, threat in every undulation of sound. Ethan had almost forgotten the other man's presence. Christophe's eyes flicked over his shoulder nervously before they dropped away.

"Talk."

"It's not what it—" Christophe started to protest.

"Don't give me that, it's exactly—" Ethan cut himself off. He balled up his fists and tried to calm his racing heart. He felt his skin heat in an angry blush, but as quickly as it came, the anger fizzled. He was too tired to feed this new fire, exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones. "What are you doing here, Chris?" The same question he'd asked time and again, never receiving any sort of satisfactory response. Well, he wasn't going to let it lie this time.

A tick jerked Christophe's jaw. He glared at Ethan, standing and crossing his arms. "Your father sent me."

Ethan staggered like he'd been struck. The words lodged in his throat until he thought he might choke on them. Patrick's hand slipped up under his leather jacket, warm against the small of Ethan's back. He made no other motion or sound, as if he were waiting for Ethan's move before he decided how to react. It was restrained for the werewolf, considerate.

Ethan grinned sudden and dark, he knew how it must look: almost manic. "You know, that's the first thing you've said since coming out here that I actually believe. That's fucked up, Chris."

The other magician's mouth firmed up into a flat, tense line. He did not reply.

Ethan felt his face slip into a disgusted grimace. "Well? Are you going to tell me __ why _he_ sent you?" He stepped into Christophe's personal space, stared into the side of his face. "Don't I deserve that much of an explanation? Didn't you say we were friends? Don't friends tell each other stuff like that?"

Christophe looked up at him with a little sneer, his mouth twisted into a cruel moue. His eyes though—his eyes told a more complex story. They skittered away from Ethan's too quickly. Underneath the false bravado, he looked guilty. It didn't make Ethan feel better about the betrayal.

"You can't guess?" Christophe murmured, low and dark.

Ethan spread his arms wide, taking in the full breadth and width of his ruined flat. "Enlighten me."

"It's the stone, Ethan," he said, exasperated.

Ethan blinked. He racked his brain, trying to think what Christophe could mean. He came up with nothing, his mind drawing up a complete blank. His mask cracked, confusion leaking into his words, "What?"

Christophe huffed out an irritated puff of air. "The stone, you stupid sod, the bloodstone."

Behind him, Patrick tensed, confusion radiating from him. "Ethan?"

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "What bloodstone?"

One long finger bridged the space between them and tapped him on the forehead, right between his eyes, just once. "Medusa's Curl, I believe is what they call it in the modern vernacular." When this did nothing to ease the confused expression on Ethan's face, Christophe said, "It looks like a snake, darling, a little stone snake."

The words curled down into Ethan's gut, he felt a cold anxious sweat break out across his skin. He stood still, schooling his expression to give nothing away. He sent up a silent prayer that Patrick wouldn't respond to his body's otherwise obvious distress.

He knew exactly what object Christophe spoke of, though he couldn't imagine what his father might want it for.

The snake head was little more than a finger-size lump of limestone crudely carved and worn down with age. It was a pendant, with a delicate silver setting hung on a plain strip of leather. His Uncle Eoin had passed it on along with a few other odds and ends from his mother's estate. He'd said it had been her favorite necklace, that he hoped Ethan might feel closer to her if he wore it too, that it might bring him luck. Ethan had always found it a little creepy, a little ugly, but strangely hypnotizing. He'd held on to it in another fit of nostalgia.

Christophe stood toe-to-toe with him until they were breathing each other's air. Ethan looked him in the eye and said without pause or hesitation, "I have no idea what that is."

Christophe held his gaze. Ethan wondered if this is how criminals felt when they were cross examined on the stand.

"Your father is under the impression that you should."

"Really? I think my father has spent the better part of my life working under the misapprehension I should know a lot of things that I don't. Out of anyone, I'd think you would be the one to call this bullshit."

Christophe refused to be chided. He looked at Ethan with his cool, flat eyes and waited. Ethan snorted in disgust and turned away, almost running into Clanahan. The werewolf looked down at him and raised a dark brow but Ethan just closed his eyes, pushing subtly against his hips until he backed out of the bedroom.

Ethan braced himself against the doorjamb and addressed Christophe over his shoulder. "I want you out of here."

"Not until I get what I came for."

"I don't think you understand Chris—"

"No, it's you who doesn't understand, pet," Christophe interrupted. He grabbed Ethan and jerked him back around. He pushed Ethan into the wall and boxed him in on either side with his strong, slender arms. He was still wearing one of Ethan's shirts. It fit him well, especially where the tired collar gaped a little at his throat.

"Your father knows you have the bloodstone. Your mother took it from him and now he wants it back."

Ethan barked a hoarse laugh. "So he sent you?"

For a second Christophe almost looked ashamed but it didn't last. "Things back home are complicated Ethan; it doesn't pay to have Alexandre Pelletier as an enemy. A fact you might try taking to heart yourself."

"Fuck that, I'm not afraid of the old man."

"Aren't you?" Christophe asked, his expression full of pity. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"No," he protested.

"Oh darling, I think we both know you've always been running away." Christophe traced the stubbled curve of his jaw, smoothing over the edges of the bandage on his neck.

"No! You're wrong, I just wanted a fresh start. I wanted to be near her," his throat hiccuped on the words.

"Who? Your dead gypsy-witch mother? The one that ran away from him first? The one that left you?"

"It wasn't like that. He's not just the pretend villain in my childhood nightmares, Chris. He's a sociopath."

Christophe laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, it was distracting.

"Of course he is. Good lord, you say that like the rest of us aren't to one degree or another." His slender fingers cupped Ethan's face in a familiar embrace. "We're all a little detached, self-absorbed, dangerous. That's what makes us able to do what we do. Precious boy, as if you're any different."

Ethan sagged into his body. He hated Christophe in that moment, incandescently, in his bones, but the other man still drew him in like a moth to the fucking flame. He wouldn't escape this, he'd be burned to ash first.

An angry snarl broke the tension between them and Christophe was suddenly on the other side of the room. His back dented the plaster with a sharp crack. Ethan gasped like a drowning man breaching the surface of the ocean. He sucked in huge lungfuls of air, staring at the other magician in shock, shivering out from under the tangle of his enchantment. It wasn't an easy task, bewitching another magic practitioner, not without a keen and intimate understanding of their weaknesses. Ethan swallowed the rise of bile in his throat.

"Fuck," he croaked. Christophe held up his hands to placate or protest—Ethan didn't know and he didn't care. "Get. Out."

At his side, Clanahan's snarl turned to a full on howl, rumbling out of his chest. His shoulders and back hunched and twisted, vicious looking claws springing out of his fingers.

Christophe grabbed his expensive leather bag—never unpacked as far as Ethan knew—and fled. The front door slammed closed on his heels.

#

Pat had tried to respect Ethan's desire for a little space, retreating to the kitchen and pacing. But he kept one ear cocked, filtering the rise and fall of their conversation through the walls.

He couldn't shake his own uneasiness, the way the very air seemed to set his hair on end like a prelude to an electrical storm. His body tensed, waiting for something, the end of the world itself, maybe.

His wolf snapped and snarled, working up a racket until his pulse throbbed in his temple. Pat felt about sixty seconds away from losing it again when his ears registered the sudden drop in Ethan's heartbeat. Not the normal sound of someone calming down, too fast, unnatural, like dying.

Faster than a human eye could track, Pat crossed the hall into the bedroom. He wasn't prepared to find Christophe pinning his partner to his own bedroom wall, eyes white with magic, wet tendrils of energy streaming out of him and across Ethan's pale skin. The wolf saw red, Pat gave himself up to the instinct.

He came back to himself at the tentative touch of Ethan's hand on his face. He ran a gentle finger down his nose, expression curious. Pat grabbed his hand, pressed a swift, tentative kiss to the tips of his fingers and let him go.

"Thank you," Ethan whispered. His voice sounded like it had been run through a blender, raw. It reminded Pat of sharp fingernails raking down across his shoulders.

Pat couldn't keep himself from running hands, a little shaky with excess adrenaline, down Ethan's neck, his shoulders, his chest. "What was he talking about?"

Ethan shrugged half-heartedly, like it was nothing. It hadn't looked like nothing to Pat.

"No, don't do—" still riding his gut, he cupped the back of Ethan's neck and drew their heads together, like conspirators sharing a secret. "Please tell me, please."

Ethan's eyelashes fluttered, ticklish against his skin.

"It's a pendant, just an ugly trinket I inherited from my mother. I cant imagine why—" Ethan swallowed audibly and shivered, "—what my father could want with it. It's junk." He laid his head down on Pat's shoulder, then tucked his face into the sweaty curve of his throat. Pat shuddered and let the tension drain out of his body.

"You can't stay here."

Ethan hummed, his soft lips kissed Pat's skin.

"Come on. Pants, remember? Pants and I'm taking you home. You need to rest, and food, and I'm not leaving you here."

It took every ounce of self control in him to push Ethan away and down onto his bed. Pat jerked open his dresser, sniffed suspiciously and settled on the first T-shirt and pair of jeans that smelled clean. Ethan took the articles dully, shimmied out of the hospital scrubs and into his own clothes all without looking at Pat. He woke up enough to rip off the last of the bandages covering his torso, revealing healed skin.

"It's you, right?" Ethan murmured and touched his shoulder. The soft, wondering expression on his face made Pat swallow hard, a nervous lump lodged in his throat. His wolf howled at his own cowardice but he couldn't bring himself to reply.

He bundled Ethan out of the apartment, down the street and back into the Camaro. He couldn't stop checking the rear view mirror, but as far as he could tell, no one followed them.

#

Ethan drifted on autopilot, letting Clanahan drag him along. His chest felt tight, his head heavy from the residual tendrils of Christophe's magic. His pulse throbbed, blood pumping sluggishly through his veins; it felt like the end of a long bender.

He picked at the food the werewolf put in front of him once they were back at Clanahan's house without tasting any of it, drank glass after glass of water, and when he was finished, let Patrick herd him back into his bedroom. He must have aired it out, Ethan couldn't catch a single whiff of their activities from the day before.

Gentle hands eased him out of his clothes until he was clad in his boxer briefs. Ethan studied Patrick's face as he examined the fading marks left on his skin where the monster had cut down to the bone.

"Do they hurt?" he asked.

Ethan shook his head.

Patrick cleared his throat, he sounded uncharacteristically nervous. "That's good."

"This is probably supposed to make me uncomfortable, so uncomfortable in fact, that I'll let it slide and ignore the obvious. But you know what? After the day I've had—the last twenty-four hours I've had, actually—I don't much feel like ignoring it. If anything, this," he gestured between them, "seems like the least painful conversation I could start."

Patrick stared at the rug under Ethan's bare feet. His hands rested on the bed, either side of his hips.

"I think we need to talk about this."

"This?" the other man asked, trying and missing coy. Ethan rolled his eyes and tipped Patrick's chin up until he looked at him.

"Yeah, this, you and me and my magically healed body. Maybe we can take a side trip and discuss whatever the fuck it was happened yesterday while we're at it." He smiled, slow and a little wicked, trying to dispel the foul fog from his head, replacing thoughts of Christophe's betrayal with memories of Patrick's skin against his.

Patrick shivered under his gaze and tried to squirm away. Ethan didn't feel like letting him go just yet.

"Anderson got back to me about the GPS's."

Ethan closed his eyes and lowered his heavy head to Patrick's shoulder, sliding forward until the other man had to either grab his weight or let him fall onto the floor. He made the most delicious whining noise straight into Ethan's ear, his hands tight against his skin. Werewolves were like space heaters.

"I think you should tell me what that was with your...house guest," Pat said, another deflection.

Ethan shivered, not in a good way, and pulled back. He put enough space between them to breathe. "I told you."

"You really have no idea why he wanted this, uh—"

"Medusa's Curl," Ethan parroted. He frowned, thinking. "I really don't. My uncle didn't call it that."

"He, uh, Christophe called it a bloodstone too, didn't he?"

Ethan shrugged. The term meant almost as little as the archaic name to him. Patrick looked dissatisfied with his response but he didn't know what else to tell him.

"I wasn't the best student in school. I didn't even graduate." He waved Patrick's surprised eyebrows away. "I'm a shitty magician, I told you before. My father—well, my father's entire family really—is kind of a big deal in the magic world. I was a disappointment. It's part of why I moved to Seattle." He watched the emotions flick across Patrick's face, confusion, then understanding, winding back around to something a little sad, almost but not quite wistful. Ethan wrinkled his nose. "Family doesn't mean the same thing to Pelletier's as I'm sure it does to Clan Clanahans."

"McClanahan," Patrick murmured.

"What?"

The werewolf rubbed the bridge of his nose in a nervous tick. "My mother is the pack alpha but Clanahan is just the family name. The pack is all McClanahans, 'sons of's'."

"Do all the packs do that? Carry a delineation like that, I mean."

"Not all." He quirked a tiny, self-deprecating grin. "I think my great-great-great grandfather dropped the _Mc_. They say he was a bit wild."

Ethan snorted. "My mother's family has their own floating armada. I could probably beat you for crazy people in the gene pool."

Patrick smiled. "You should get some rest."

He widened his eyes and grabbed Patrick's arm before he could move away. "No, stop trying to do that, I'm fine. I spent most of the morning sleeping. We have to talk."

Patrick extricated himself with a little effort and paced away from the bed, out of Ethan's reach if he didn't want to go chasing him around half naked. Under different circumstances, he might have done it anyway.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Patrick said after a minute, running anxious hands through his hair until it stood on end.

Ethan rolled his shoulder, noting the slight ache but none of the pain he should have felt after having it dislocated and broken.

"This is some sort of wolf mojo, right? The nurse recognized it. I just don't understand what _kind_ ," he said and stared at Patrick, tracking his strong, graceful movements. The wolf was clearly distressed but it did little to take away from the stunning picture he made, a predator in every movement.

"Come on, just tell me," Ethan wheedled.

"I—" Patrick turned wide, desperate eyes to the ceiling. His face flushed red and hot, all the blood in his body giving away his embarrassment. "It was a mistake," he blurted.

Ethan sat back, feeling a bit like he'd just been slapped. He laughed, raw and startled. "Fuck, this really isn't my day." He looked away from his partner, stared blankly at the far bedroom wall.

"No!"

They both started at Clanahan's vehement tone. He flushed and it looked like he was steeling himself for an inquisition but in the next moment Patrick had pushed into Ethan's personal space, crowding him back onto the bed and crawling on top of him.

Ethan sank onto his elbows, staring up at the werewolf in confusion.

"No, that's not what I meant." He swallowed, bent his head and sucked in a deep breath along the tense line of Ethan's neck. It made him shiver and his cock twitched in his shorts.

"Holy—"

"I can't get you out of my head. Your scent, the feel of your skin, I swear it's burned into my fingertips."

Ethan grinned up at him. "Well, I knew I was good, but it's always nice to hear other people appreciate my skills too." He slid playful hands up under the trailing edge of Patrick's shirt.

The other man whined fitfully and pulled away. He sat back on his heels, knees framing Ethan's sides and stared down at him. His expression was hard to read, a little upset and a lot conflicted.

"Hey," Ethan reached up and flicked his nose. "Why the long face? You just said you didn't regret it. I certainly don't regret it. So, we're good. All I want to know is, what's with the wolf mojo. Not that I'm complaining, trust me, I appreciate it. I'm just curious." He grinned, but Patrick's face crumpled anyway, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

"Wolves mate for life."

Ethan blinked.

"What?" he asked and shook his head. "Wait, you, so? What does that have to do..."

"I've never, before—I mean, never with another person."

"Yeah, I kind of—" Ethan winced, "—picked up on that? It's fine, I didn't—I don't care." This conversation felt like it was getting away from him, but he didn't want to scare Patrick off by saying the wrong thing. Even misfiring like they were, he could feel their hearts beating in sync with one another. They felt so close to something and a part of Ethan was desperately curious to find out what that something was or could be. It was that same piece of his psyche Christophe and every terrible one night stand had slowly ripped free, leaving the heart in his chest unmoored.

Patrick buried his face in his hands and took a deep, bracing breath. "It's because we're...partners, we're connected. The—the sex just, amplified, things."

Ethan wasn't sure what was so hard about that. It was handy, is what it was. Injuries in their line of work were all too common. If all it took was some spectacularly hot sex and putting up with Clanahan's occasional bitchiness, the enhanced regeneration might be worth it.

"Really not complaining here, Detective. Now what do you think about coming back down here." He grabbed Patrick's shirt and tugged. "For a little bit more of that nice _connecting_."

Patrick looked conflicted but in the end all he did was sigh and wrap Ethan's hands up in his own.

"You should rest."

Ethan opened his mouth to argue but Patrick cut him off, rolling onto his side and tangling their arms and legs together on the bed. Ethan let the other man arrange them to his own specifications without arguing.

"Rest."

"All right."

Ethan tried to lie still and play along, despite the way his mind kept running in circles. He felt too strung out to sleep. Patrick was a warm weight against his side, chest rising and falling soft and steady. Ethan's thoughts strayed back to Christophe and the pendant.

He let his mind spin out without conscious direction, following the rabbit trail. He flicked through every legend concerning the Gorgons he'd learned in school, called up what he remembered of Ovid's _Metamorphoses._

Somehow, between one breath and another, he fell asleep.

## **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

##

Ethan came awake slowly. He wasn't alone, a heavy arm around his waist kept him anchored to the bed—a bed which was not his own. It all came back to him in a rush: the attack, the hospital, Christophe. Ethan shut his eyes and buried his face in the pillow beneath his cheek. It smelled like Clanahan, fresh growth in the forest, rain and wild things. The arm, too, belonged to his partner.

They needed to get back on the case. Clanahan had mentioned a phone call from the guy down at PetChIp, Ethan wondered if he'd found out anything interesting. And they needed to follow up on Ilan Maccabee before he slipped out of their grasp. He considered the merits of applying a tracking spell to the scene where he'd been attacked. As he lay there, Ethan had to admit he didn't feel drained of energy, just really, really comfortable basking in the warmth and touch.

Clanahan yawned and stretched, flexing his toes against Ethan's calves and wormed in closer. He was hard against the small of the mage's back.

Ethan still felt confused after their non-discussion the day before. There was something bothering the werewolf but since he denied it was the sex itself, Ethan couldn't begin to guess what it might be. And what had Clanahan meant about wolves mating for life? Of course Ethan _knew_ that, it was common knowledge that wolves were monogamous creatures by nature.

Ethan made a little space under Clanahan's arm and rolled over so that they were face-to-face. He studied the other man, his body in repose, for once free of tension or irritation, violence or anger. He looked younger this way, a little innocent, almost.

"Do you always stare at people when they're trying to sleep?"

Ethan grinned and slung a leg up over Patrick's hips. The other man groaned when he slipped a hand into his shorts, working the waistband down under Patrick's balls. Ethan wiggled out of his own underpants and took both of their cocks in hand.

He'd been in too much of a hurry last time to really appreciate Patrick's body. His cock was a warm, heavy weight in his palm, pulsing with life and blood as he hitched into the touch. Ethan moaned, mouth going a little slack, and stroked the hard flesh.

Patrick slipped one muscular arm beneath his head, dragging them closer together, and tangled the fingers of his other hand up in Ethan's free one. He drew that arm up above their heads, held it down, and drove his cock hard against Ethan's. They both groaned.

"Kiss me, kiss me, Jesus—" Ethan panted.

Patrick obeyed, swallowing his sharp cries. Ethan bucked up into him, enjoying the feeling of his bones held down tight.

Patrick licked into his mouth like an old acquaintance, catching all their noises in the space between their tongues, then worked his way pressing sloppy, wet kissing along Ethan's jaw and throat. He bit down lightly and murmured nonsense as he came, tensing and shuddering, spilling hot and thick across Ethan's knuckles.

He jerked, easing his hand off Patrick's softening cock. He stripped himself quickly, using Patrick's come to slick the way. It didn't take much to push him over the edge. A vicious twist with his wrist, and he was pulsing, shivering while his partner held him and nipped at his sensitive earlobe.

They lay together for a long time afterwards, just breathing, skin to skin, until they began to itch in uncomfortable places. So they got cleaned up. Ethan borrowed a clean set of sweats after a shower and installed himself on a barstool in the kitchen to watch Patrick wrangle something edible for their breakfast.

"Jam?"

"Yes please, but no peanut butter."

Patrick quirked a surprised eyebrow but shrugged, spreading seedy dark jam onto their toast.

"I don't suppose you have any tea?"

"I thought you'd want coffee?"

Ethan shrugged and accepted the first plate. "I just like tea with jam, it's a thing."

Patrick rummaged through a narrow cupboard until he found a box of bagged Twinings. "Close enough?"

"Fantastic." He made a cup in the microwave and dosed it with milk and a little sugar. Patrick's eyes tracked him lazily.

"So what did you find out about the chips?" Ethan asked after they'd settled in with a huge pile of toast, bananas and a carton of yogurt. The spread was surprisingly pedestrian, Ethan expected more fried dough and barely cooked meat products.

Patrick stole a sip of his tea. "Anderson said they're all taken from actual pets, which explains the blood I could smell on them. Most of them are company chips. The rest are from one of their main competitors."

"So, what, Matilde took them?" Ethan paused, frowned, "Do we think she was killing pets and keeping their chips? That's a little twisted."

His partner shrugged. "I don't know what to think. Anderson swore up and down she wouldn't do that. I'm inclined to agree with him but it's almost always the quiet ones who have the weirdest proclivities."

"She worked for a vet's office, that might explain the non-PetChIp chips."

Patrick nodded. He spooned out some of the yogurt and slid it over Ethan.

"Do you have the business card for the vet?"

"Yeah, let me grab it." Patrick handed over Matilde's ID badge and the business card in their plastic evidence baggies.

Ethan took all this in and shook his head. "You brought the whole case file home, didn't you?" he grabbed his cell and dialed the listed number. A woman picked up on the second ring.

"Happy Paws Clinic, how can I help you?"

"Hi, my name is Ethan Ellison. I'm a detective with the SPD, I understand that you employed a young woman named Matilde Walker. Is that correct?" He heard the woman on the other end draw in a heavy breath.

"That's right. Are—are you the one looking into her—it's just that we all saw the paper the other day...."

"Yes I am. Can you tell me what she did for you guys?"

"Just reception stuff, making appointments, handling patients and customer records. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was part time."

Ethan could tell Patrick was listening in on the conversation. An idea struck him

"Do you ever get calls about missing pets?"

"Sometimes." The woman sniffed. "Sometimes pet owners call us if we did the GPS chipping for them."

"Did Matilde handle any of those cases?"

"I don't know," a beat, "she might have? It's possible?"

Ethan grimaced but kept his tone light, scrambled for a pen and a scrap of paper. "Okay, thanks. What's your name?"

"Allison Grant."

He wrote it down and stuck it in along with the rest of their evidence. It never hurt to actually keep records of the people you questioned.

"Okay, thanks Allison. We'll be in touch." He hit the _End Call_ button and set his phone on the counter top.

"What are you thinking?" Patrick asked through a mouthful of banana. Ethan tried not to stare too hard at the way his lips stretched around—. He gave his brain a solid check and forced his thoughts out of his pants and into the murky dregs of his tea.

"Maybe she wasn't killing pets but tracking something else that was."

"Our monster?"

"Why not? Makes more sense to me. I haven't got 'sociopath' off any of her stuff and that's usually not something people can hide."

Patrick gave him a strange look and said, "Have a lot of experience with sociopaths?"

Ethan just looked away.

#

Pat made a call to Jordan Augustas while he cleaned up the breakfast dishes. He kept one ear trained on Ethan who had retreated to the living room

"What's up, Detective?"

"I'm keeping Ellison here for the time being."

Jordan sounded amused when she asked, "Oh? Define 'here.'"

"We're at my place."

"All right." She definitely sounded amused now. "But I want you working when you're not playing nursemaid. What's Ellison's conditions anyway? I wasn't expecting the hospital to let him go this soon."

"He's—" Patrick coughed and ran a hand back through his hair. What could he tell her? That Ethan was perfectly fine because Pat couldn't keep his dick or his wolf in check? Because his subconscious had decided to tie his soul to Ethan's after one night of— _amazing_ —sex?

"He's doing better. He might have snuck out AMA but I'm going to keep an eye on him."

"I'm sure you are."

"Captain?"

"Nothing. All right, just keep me informed about any progress you make with the case. Don't leave me flat footed and chained between the Maccabees and the Tremblés."

He winced. "Will do."

"Everything good?" Ethan asked. He leaned against the kitchen island, watching Pat with dark eyes.

Pat focused on setting aside the last of the breakfast dishes and drying his hands to buy a little time for his brain to compile a sensible response. He did not look at the stripe of skin between Ethan's shirt and where his borrowed sweatpants had started to slip down the pale curve of his hip. He had to get control of himself.

"Clanahan?"

"Yeah, we're good." He closed the dish cupboard. "So what's our next move?"

"I don't—" Ethan bit his lip and stared up at the ceiling for a protracted minute. His fingers tapped restlessly against the marble countertop. "She was scared, but she wasn't surprised by her attacker. She was hiding shit like someone who's watched too many spy movies. What does that tell us? Who acts like that?"

"A civilian in over their head."

"Right, but one who's investigating something." The mage stepped around the kitchen island and into Pat's personal space. He froze, the heat close enough he could feel every shift and vibration as Ethan breathed. A beat and then the other man moved away, started pacing around the kitchen. He ran a casual hand across the countertop, the arch of the faucet, the edge of the stove. Like he was mapping Pat's territory by touch.

Ethan stopped short and smiled wryly. "Come on, doesn't this remind you of something? An episode of _Murder She Wrote_."

"' _Murder She Wrote_ '," he repeated.

"Exactly. It fits. But unlike a book or TV show where the spunky go-getter catches her villain, this time amateur hour ended in Matilde Walker—"

"Being torn to shreds."

"Yeah. Come on. I think I need to see her apartment. You said you found dog collars there but no sign of any pets. They must be connected to the rest of it. If we're lucky, there might be enough residual energy kicking around her flat—we can try to retrace her steps."

Ethan grinned and disappeared upstairs. Pat listened to him thump around in the bedroom pulling on clothes and shoes. He reappeared a minute later wearing jeans and a flannel shirt taken from Pat's wardrobe. He couldn't deny he enjoyed the way the fabric fell across the lines of Ethan's body.

In synch, they headed for the car with Pat sliding behind the wheel.

"Mind if we make a quick stop? I could use a couple things from the magic shop."

"Yeah, sure, just give me directions."

They drove across town and Ethan directed them down a side street not too far away from his own building. Pat parked and followed him into _The Three Sisters_. Ethan headed straight for the shop to the back and disappeared through a door marked Private. Pat hesitated a second and a young woman had appeared at his elbow, her youthful face drawn in a weighty expression as she stared up at him.

She frowned and gestured for him to follow. Tucked away in an alcove at the front of the store there were a couple chairs and a couch arranged to create a more private space. He sank into one of the plush chairs and the woman took the other.

The tips of her toes barely touched the ground but she threw her weight against the heavy wood, jerking her seat closer until their knees almost touched. Then she reached out and took his hand between her blunt fingers. Smooth skin ran across his knuckles, the nail beds, the calluses, across his palms.

"Oh," she breathed. Her fingers clenched once around his hand and then relaxed. She turned it over and nodded over the lines in his skin.

Pat had to work not to pull away from her touch. He trained an ear towards the back of the shop instead, just enough attention to check up on Ethan's progress. His partner was talking quietly to someone, the rise and murmur of words interspersed with a rhythmic _shnick shnick_.

"You should tell the truth, Patrick."

"What?"

Pat jerked back and met the woman's eyes. They narrowed at him and she let go of his hand.

"Not very noble is it? Being afraid."

"What are you talking about?"

She flicked a glance over his shoulder: _Ethan_.

"How—"

"Really?" The woman waved her hands around, gesturing at the little table off to one side, the ancient tarot deck, the china teapot and cups set out on a tray at her elbow.

"You ready to go?" Ethan asked.

Pat stumbled to his feet. He couldn't quite meet the woman's accusatory stare. Or Ethan's curious one, for that matter. He shook his head to clear it and followed the mage back outside, the weak spring sun warming the tip of his nose.

"Should I even ask?"

"Hm?"

Ethan paused at the car; he considered Pat with that same curious stare. He had a parcel of brown butcher paper clutched under one arm.

"What? I have no idea what that was," Pat protested.

"Just Edie being Edie, probably. What did she say to you?"

They got into the car.

Pat shook his head. "Nothing important."

"If you say so."

#

A large part of him didn't believe a word Patrick said. The wolf looked far too disquieted from his encounter with Lailana's youngest sister, a powerful seer and the neighborhood prognosticator. He watched his partner glare through the windshield from the corner of his eye but decided it was probably best to let the other man keep his secrets. Seers often set people on edge, even those familiar with the supernatural side of life.

Patrick stopped at a corner Starbucks and ran inside for coffees before they rolled up outside the victim's apartment building.

Ethan knew that her body had been released to the family for burial already but her door was still covered in police tape to prevent tampering.

"Guess we're lucky they didn't release the scene," he said.

Patrick grunted and unlocked the door. The air inside was warm and still. Claustrophobic. The wolf lead the way inside, sneezing from the accumulation of dust. He pointed out the living room.

Ethan sat on the sofa and set his bundle down on the coffee table. For a couple minutes he let the apartment sink into him while he sipped his coffee and quieted his mind. Patrick hovered at a window behind him. Ethan was aware of the other man's eyes scoping out the entrances and exits, tensed. It should have been distracting but, god help him, it was almost starting to feel routine.

He blew out a long breath.

"Is there something I can do?" Patrick's voice broke his concentration.

Ethan held out his cup. His partner took it.

"Be quiet, but stay close."

Then he unwrapped his supplies and began laying them out in meticulous order. Ethan would be the first to admit he was flying by the seat of his pants here, a little, with no real spell in mind. He just knew what he wanted and he had to feel out his way to the answers.

Matilde had eaten and slept and dreamed and schemed within the walls of her tiny, one bedroom apartment. Even he could feel the energy her life had left behind here. All he had to do was coax it out into the light, convince it to give up her secrets to him. And along with those secrets, a lead.

Ethan separated strands of rosemary and dried dandelion into five little bunches and tied them together with hemp.

"Here." He gave four of the bouquets to Patrick. "Put one at each cardinal direction. Try to encompass the whole apartment if you can."

The werewolf's nose flared but he did as requested. Ethan held onto the fifth bundle, tied it to a longer piece of twine and hung it around his neck to represent the source.

Next he found a cereal bowl, faded and chipped around the edges, something Matilde had owned for a number of years and used frequently. He pushed aside the sofa, clearing a space on the scuffed parquet floor upon which he drew a quick circle in plain white chalk, just large enough for him to sit inside.

For the rest he had to pull on a pair of all natural latex gloves. They were small and tight on his hands, borrowed from Lailana's personal supply—made from latex extracted by a coven of witches in Thailand.

He ripped the buds and petals from a bunch of absinthe wormwood, narrow green leaves and little balls of yellow flowers. Then he stripped a stem of common rue, bending it into the bottom of the bowl. This combination created the bitters that would coax out echoes of what he wanted to see.

"Hey," he called and Patrick appeared in front of him. "Do you have the water?"

His partner handed over a bottle of Fiji water—it was all taken from crystal stream beds and worked better than tap for focusing spells. Ethan filled the bowl halfway and then very carefully added two diluted drops of belladonna tincture to the liquid. Nowhere near enough to be fatal, just enough to open up the visual cortex to stimulation.

For the last, Ethan took out a wrapped poppy bloom, dark red at its center, fading to a delicate pink around the ruffled edges.

He set the soup down inside the circle and then sat tailor style before it. Tipped the poppy onto the surface of the water like a little boat and pulled his gloves off with a snap.

Now it was a matter of calming his nerves. He had to remove the trepidation squirming around in his gut, the sure knowledge that this was going to be unpleasant, and believe that it wouldn't harm him. Almost every ingredient involved was poisonous in one way or another. He had to drink it but he also had to believe that it wouldn't kill him. A peculiar matter of conviction and not something they taught him in school—it was a witch's trick.

Ethan took a deep breath in through his nostrils and exhaled out his mouth. He rolled his shoulders back and shook his neck loose, spine pulling into a slight arc with the weight of his skull.

Before he could second-guess himself, he reached out with naked hands, brought the bowl to his lips and drank. Its contents burst bitter and terrible across his tongue, but he kept swallowing until only the soggy plant parts remained. The poppy flower slid between his teeth and lodged there.

Ethan felt his eyes roll up into his head and he let the light slip away behind shuttered lids.

#

Some might call it a hallucination.

Maybe it was.

He'd never taken LSD before, but this didn't look like the hallucinations he'd seen on film.

Ethan's pupils dilated, an endless pool of black swallowing up his irises. It hurt, even with his eyelids closed, the way the sunlight seemed to stab right into his head. He hadn't thought, but he should have, to close the blinds before beginning. Nothing to do for it now.

He squinted his eyes open, blinked away the sharp sting of tears. His tongue and the soft tissues in his mouth burned a little from the rue.

In a corner of his mind, tucked away from his frantic fluttering heart, he was aware of Clanahan hovering nearby. That same part that tracked the werewolf's every movement and twitch, the soft susurration of his breathing, now like a dowsing rod in the acid wash light of vision.

He blinked and blinked again. And when he opened his eyes a third time it was like a veil had descended over the room, desaturated it. Ethan looked around, following the ripple of color that emerged from the air like a scent.

At the very edge of his hearing he caught the low rise and fall of a voice, possibly feminine, which was joined by another, lower, rougher.

He turned his body towards the kitchen where the color coalesced and wavered back and forth. His senses strained towards the color and the noise. This is what they had come for.

Sweat slid cool down the back of his neck, into the collar of his borrowed tee.

His body moved on autopilot. He stood, stepped over the chalk line and shuffled towards where the psychic imprint was strongest. But even as he got closer, as he stood right up next to the light, the images and sounds refused to come into focus. He tilted his head first one way and then the other, strained his eyes to try to see—all to no use. It was like trying to watch a movie from the bottom of a swimming pool.

Hot tears welled up in the corners of his eyes: frustration, pain, the burn of belladonna in his system. Teeth ground down the poppy in his mouth, bitter nuts and something colored green on his tongue.

He had hoped, if only to himself, that if they came here it would be like every other time his magic brushed up against Matilde, first in the morgue and then at the crime scene, turn it into a lightning strike. A part of him had dared believe that maybe, _maybe_ there was something here to ignite him.

"Idiot," Ethan wheezed, a huff of breath.

The voices, for as indistinct as they might be he knew the signs of a conversation, drew away, faded.

Ethan bit out a curse and cupped his hands around his ears, tried to hold onto the murmur until it was nothing more than a trickle of sound. His teeth mashed the poppy into shreds between his lips and he gagged, bent to cough without actually spitting the petals out.

"E—"

All the air whooshed out of his lungs as he choked. His lips tingled, but it was anyone's guess whether that was from the herbs or the increasing lack of air. Maybe both. Ethan stuttered out an hysterical laugh and would have fallen onto his face but for warm hands that closed around his shoulders.

Hands that jerked him to his feet. A firm chest pressed against his back and hot air ruffled the fringe at his neck.

"Ethan?" One of the hands slid up around his throat, rested lightly, fingerprints against his pulse.

He shuddered.

Thunder rolled in the distance, gathering closer. The hairs on his arms stood up on end. A static charge jumped from the hand around his neck and skittered across his skin. Ethan jerked and his eyes snapped open wide, all pupil now.

"Ethan," a loud voice growled, it joined the thunder, thrumming through him and Ethan could finally see.

The wash of color coalesced, Matilde Walker: five foot three, average weight, pin straight hair, dark to her shoulders. She looked like a hundred other girls you'd bump into on the street in her color block dress and cardigan, another wannabe Zooey Deschanel.

A dark cloud reached out and took her arm, pinched the skin white and jerked her back. Said, _"I told you to leave it alone. Why won't you just listen!"_

_"Let go."_

_"Not until you agree—"_

_"It's wrong. Something's wrong and I'm going—"_

_"I don't want to see you get hurt! I...."_ the vision shook or maybe it was just his body, shaking.

_"Is that a threat?"_ Matilde's voice wavered.

_"What? No! How can you even...."_

_"Let go."_

Ethan blinked and watched as a dark cloud reached out, grabbed her arm, just above the elbow joint.

_"I told you to leave it alone—"_

He shook his head and turned away, his eyes searching the rest of the apartment. He stumbled over something, headed for the bedroom where he could just hear the regular _thump thump thump_ of something moving. Through watering eyes he could see the outline of two figures moving on the bed. Soft gasps punctuated the possessive snarls of a werewolf fucking.

_"What are you doing here?"_ a soft voice slid cool across his skin.

Ethan turned just his head, came face-to-face with the wide eyes of Matilde Walker. But it wasn't really her, and not her ghost, just an echo.

His mouth felt tacky, lips glued together. There was no spit left on his tongue. Ethan unpeeled his lips and asked, "What were you looking for? The night you left."

_"What night?"_ her voice came to him from a distance, soft and fluttering in and out of the audible range. Ethan strained to hear her.

"The night you didn't come back."

The mirage's head tilted, dark hair fell across her pale face.

_"I didn't..."_ she looked right through him. _"There's a wolf at the door."_

"It's just Patrick."

Her mouth cracked into a jagged smile.

_"Who's that?"_

"He's—he is." Ethan's heart thundered under his skin, blood pumping frantically. Sweat broke out across his brow. His body trembled.

_"Who,"_ she whispered.

"E—"

_"There's a wolf in the dark. But a man in the moon."_

He gritted his teeth. "And a cat in the hat? Fucking tell me—"

The vision popped and like a switch, the waking world snapped back into technicolor. Ethan swore and shut his eyes.

"Hey, it's okay, I've got you."

He let Clanahan guide him over to the couch where he collapsed back into the plush cushions and tried to breathe. Warm hands guided his head to the side, put a bottle of water to his lips and a bowl under his mouth. He swished and spat all of the plant matter off his tongue and then drank the rest of the Fiji water.

He sighed.

Clanahan reached out like he was going to feel his forehead, but as always seemed to happen, someone's phone started ringing.

Ethan felt a laugh bubble up in his chest and spill over helplessly.

## **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

##

Clanahan grimaced and answered the call. His eyes strayed to Ethan's face as he listened to the voice over the line.

Ethan waited. His heartbeat slowed, pupils contracted and he swallowed, swallowed again, until the flavor of poppy was just bitter aftertaste. The muscles in his hands and shoulders twitched as the adrenaline drained out of his system.

His partner hung up his phone.

"The captain?"

Clanahan's eyes dropped to the left as he opened his mouth to reply.

"Don't lie," Ethan cut him off.

"No," he admitted. Ethan waited, bloodshot eyes fixed on Clanahan, unrelenting. "Aaron Maccabee. He wants to talk to me. Just me."

"Of course. When?"

"Now. Are you finished here?"

"No. You go. I'll catch up after you're done."

The wolf hesitated. Then, on a whim, Ethan reached out and ran his hand down his partner's tense forearm. They stood close, all the space around them falling away for a half dozen beats of his erratic heart.

"I'll see you."

"Of course," Clanahan said.

Ethan stood rooted in place, watched him walk away and the door click closed. It was like taking the top off of a soda bottle. Pressure lifted, air rushed in and Ethan started breathing again. Great shuddering breaths that for a few minutes, at least, shook his whole body.

With clear eyes he examined the apartment in a new light. Every time he blinked, Ethan could see the afterimage glow of Matilde's residual energy.

He straightened up the living room in silence, mulling over the possibilities presented by Aaron Maccabee's phone call. Was the alpha going to warn his partner away from Ilan? Would he go so far as to threaten another alpha's beta and risk starting another pack feud?

Ethan knew Captain Augustas put him on Clanahan's tail because everyone else in the detective pool was a norm. But just because he was swimming around the supernatural deep end, didn't mean Ethan had a finger in every pie in Seattle. Aside from the basics, he just didn't know enough about werewolf politics, specifically these werewolves and their politics, to be able to predict Maccabee's next move.

On autopilot, he washed out the cereal bowl in the sink, left it to dry on the counter, and then did a walk-thru to gather up the hex bags. Ethan paused in the bedroom, his eyes straying to the bed.

There was something so familiar about—

"Oh. Of course."

Ethan checked the time on his phone, saw that it was just after 2 PM and ran out the door.

#

The Maccabee pack owned a three-story gated house on Mercer Island. Pat sat in the Camaro and stared at the brick facade while he waited for someone to answer the intercom. The grounds were meticulous: trimmed maze hedges and raked pebble paths and trees dripping spring blossoms.

The intercom crackled and he held up his badge to the security cameras. A beat, then the gate swung open soundlessly. He parked on the loop in front of the entryway and got out. Another beta met him at the door, her eyes cool and watchful.

"Detective Patrick Clanahan. I'm here to speak to Aaron Maccabee."

The woman's nose twitched and she met his eyes for a second, calculating. Pat buried his discomfort and schooled his face into a neutral expression. No matter what, he wasn't here as a wolf in enemy territory, he was a representative of the Seattle Police Department and this was official business.

He lowered his eyes and waited until the beta was satisfied.

"Come." She gestured him inside and led him down the bright hall to a study.

Where before, he and Ethan had met with Maccabee at his office downtown, now Pat had entered the very heart of the Maccabee sanctuary. The man's personal office. Everything smelled like foreign wolf. It made his nose itch and the skin on the back of his neck crawl. It was the last place Pat would have picked for a meeting but it wasn't worth pissing off Aaron Maccabee more than they already had in the course of the investigation. If there was any chance he could learn something that would help them catch Matilde's killer, he'd stomach a little discomfort to do it.

"The alpha is waiting for you," the beta murmured and indicated the closed door. Her eyes stayed with Pat as he stepped inside the brightly lit room.

"Close the door, Patrick."

Pat let the voice roll off his back like water and did as instructed.

Aaron Maccabee stood behind his desk. Huge glass doors took up most of the far wall, letting in large swaths of sunlight that moved across the floor. They glinted off the gold and silver highlights in the werewolf's hair until he looked like an illuminated saint, proud face upturned to the light and haloed.

The alpha said nothing, made no move to sit or acknowledge Pat further, just let the tension in the room ratchet up until Pat's wolf wanted to claw its way out of his skin howling. It took masterful control just to keep from fidgeting. He couldn't help picturing what Ethan would do if the mage were here—insult Maccabee's taste in interior design or something equally asinine, no doubt.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Pat glanced at Maccabee but the older man still hadn't moved. He had a new message from Ethan.

_Caught a cab, need to check something—will call when I'm done. Watch your back._

"Somewhere you have to be?"

Pat put his phone on silent and shoved it back into his pocket.

"No, sir."

The alpha's gaze rested heavy on the top of his head. Pat stared at the crooked shadow the other wolf made across the cream carpet and took measured breaths. He would submit, as was right for his station, but he refused to show any discomfort.

"Please," Maccabee gestured to an empty chair, "sit."

Pat waited the length of two heartbeats and sat.

"You wanted to discuss something with me?" he prompted.

Maccabee unbuttoned his suit coat in a practiced motion and slid into the white leather chair behind his desk.

"Yes. Thank you for taking the time out of your weekend to drive all the way out here. I didn't care much for the way our last meeting ended. I had hoped we could discuss the... _situation_ wolf to wolf."

"You mean without my partner."

The lines around Maccabee's mouth pinched almost imperceptibly. Pat wouldn't have caught it if his every sense hadn't been trained on the other wolf.

"Your partner is not the most diplomatic individual, is he?"

Pat snorted.

"No, he isn't."

"Must make working together difficult. Especially in delicate situations."

"He has his uses."

Maccabee stared at him. "I'm sure he does. But he doesn't understand us, does he? Doesn't get what it means to be pack, to have loyalty."

"We're not here to talk about Eth—Ellison."

"No, of course not. I believe you had an altercation with one of my nephews the other night?" Maccabee kept his gaze on Pat's face so he either had to look the alpha in the eye or look away. It was purposefully provocative.

"I don't think I—"

"It's just that I'd hoped if you wanted information from one of my wolves you would have had the courtesy," he stressed the word _courtesy_ and his eyes were flinty, "to come to me first. It would have been the proper way of doing things. But I understand, your magician must be accustomed to doing things a little differently than the blood."

"Your nephew was taken into police custody in relation to an ongoing investigation. It has nothing to do with the blood," Pat said.

Maccabee smiled, but at least he kept his teeth covered. "There's no need to be pedantic, is there, Patrick?"

"If you have a problem with how Ilan was treated you should ask your lawyers to take it up with the DA." He pushed his chair back from the desk with every intention of leaving. He froze when a low, subvocal growl cut the air.

"You cannot arrest a wolf without involving the blood. And pack business, I think we can both agree, is outside the purview of 'lawyers' and the human police."

Aaron Maccabee was the most dangerous kind of wolf—cunning and vicious together, as likely to cut you down with his words as his claws.

Uncertainty squirmed in Pat's gut. He didn't know where the other wolf was going with this. Why bring up Ethan and pack politics? Especially when _he_ had been the one to instigate the physical altercation with Ilan at the station not his partner. What if Maccabee had called him here to demand retribution? Sitting there under the alpha's hot, unrelenting stare, Pat knew he couldn't stand the thought of Ethan at the mercy of Maccabee's teeth.

He wanted nothing more than to lean in close, hackles raised, and demand they cut the crap, but Maccabee was right about one thing: his manners demanded better behavior. Instead he bit his tongue and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

Maccabee stood up and gestured for Pat to follow him. He opened the doors to the sprawling garden behind the house.

"Come, let us take a walk. I find fresh air has a wonderful way of lightening otherwise weighty topics."

Stepping out the doors felt like falling into Wonderland. Tall hedges sprang up from the edge of the cobbled patio, and Pat had no choice but to follow Maccabee into the labyrinth while birds chirped overhead under a blithe sun.

#

Ethan knew that Matilde's body had been released to her family not long after Janice Lynch filed her official report. He got a number for the funeral home and called them to double check the dates. Sure enough, Matilde had been laid to rest earlier that morning.

A cab dropped him off at a cemetery near Northgate, and Ethan started hiking through the headstones. Matilde's grave marker sat well back on the property in a spiral of simple flat grave markers around a weeping tree and man-made pond. Evergreens stood like dark sentinels against the horizon. Even under the sun, the scene had a forlorn air about it.

Ethan stared down the hill at a lone figure beneath the trees. His hunch had been right.

Ilan Maccabee twitched at his approach, able to smell Ethan long before he got close.

"Hoped I might find you here," Ethan said when they were standing side by side over Matilde's grave.

The werewolf grunted.

"Detective."

"Ilan."

"Not afraid I'll hit you again?"

"Should I be?" Ethan asked, letting the disbelief color his voice.

The other man seemed to collapse in on himself, shoulders rounded up around his ears and his fingers trembling at his sides.

"Yeah, didn't think so. You want to talk about her?"

Ilan opened his mouth but a choked sob came out instead of words. He shook his head.

"Okay. How about I just talk then? You join in when I get something wrong." Ethan tucked his hands into his borrowed jeans and rocked back on his heels. Tried to project calm at the distraught wolf. He really didn't think Ilan would attack him again, but he didn't want to test his luck either.

"You met Matilde sometime in the last year and became friends. More than friends actually. Lovers. You were involved. Through her job at the vet's office, Matilde noticed that an unusual number of family pets had started disappearing so she took it upon herself to investigate. How am I doing so far?"

Ilan shivered and shook his head, his hands curled into fists.

"No? All right, let's try something else. Matilde was at work one day and she started getting dozens of calls from worried pet owners. They needed her to activate the GPS chips in their dogs because they had gone missing. Matilde went one step further, she tried to track the lost pets herself. But all she found were the bits and pieces left over. Guts and fur and blood. And GPS chips. Did you know Matilde had a map of the city on her apartment wall? What am I saying? Of course you do, you've been there."

The wolf sank to his knees in the damp grass. He keened softly and his hands tore through his hair until it stood in frenzied peaks.

"Maybe she saw a pattern in the places where the remains were showing up. Kind of hard not to. What I don't know is, did she search you out? Or did your alpha send you to distract her?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Which part?"

"All of it," Ilan protested.

Ethan snorted. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

He kept a couple feet of space between them. The conversation reminded Ethan too much of the one they'd had in Interrogation. He tensed and waited for Ilan to lash out but the werewolf did something he had not anticipated: he bent low over Matilde's grave stone and began to weep.

Ethan stared at the werewolf in shock.

"It wasn't—I swear, it wasn't like you think," Ilan choked out.

He put aside his own trepidation and knelt so that they were on an eye level with one another. Ethan laid his hand on the werewolf's shoulder and projected all the calm he could.

"Tell me. Why did Matilde have to die?"

Ilan Maccabee scrubbed at his face and looked up at Ethan, blinking blood shot eyes.

"Because she figured it out. And because he willed it."

#

The Maccabee house sat on three acres, most of which were covered in gardens; a maze of eight foot tall hedges that made orientation tricky. Pat followed Aaron Maccabee to the center where a little house stood under a huge weeping willow. It felt like the hedges grew and closed in , dwarfed them until Pat could barely see the sky.

The smell of foreign wolf was strongest here, cloying in the back of his throat, dark and musky. It reminded him of something dark and ancient, death and decay. The wolf in his chest snarled and it took all of his restraint not to turn right around and get out of there.

There were bars over the windows of the little house and it was dark inside. But the ground around it was clear and the chains across the front door looked in good repair.

"You have to understand, Patrick, I did for us."

"Excuse me?"

"For all of us. Every wolf in the city. For every wolf that will come after we are loam under the trees."

"You're not a poet, Maccabee, stop talking in circles."

"They look at us like we're animals, like dogs," he said, eyes shadowed. "You know this. You have to put up with every day working in that stinking human police station, don't you?"

"I don't know what—" The words dried up in his throat under the alpha's glare. Those eyes demanded the truth and Pat couldn't deny that some people did look at him like he was a wild animal, part fear and another part disgust.

Maccabee's lips curled up into a smirk.

"I thought so."

Pat shoved down his instinct and stared at the other wolf, growled, " _What_ did you do?" and watched the way Maccabee's gaze jerked towards the little house—nothing more than a shack, really, hidden away at the heart of the Maccabee estate. Pat's nostrils flared as he scented the air, tried to pick apart all the unfamiliar scents of betas coming and going, the stink of alpha piss overtop, and beneath that the smell of rot.

He shoved Maccabee out of the way and stalked over to one of the grimy, little windows.

"What the hell are you hiding?"

#

Ethan hardly dared to breathe, afraid that if he made a sound the moment would be lost and with it, the answers he needed to wrap up the case. So he held Ilan's miserable gaze and waited for him to explain.

"We were...dating when she started looking into the deaths. And Aaron told me to, he promised not to do anything as long as I kept her away from—but Mati, she just really loved animals. And she wouldn't leave it alone." Ilan stared at the grave marker under his hands, traced the edges of her name.

_Matilde Walker_

_Beloved daughter_

_1990 − 2013_

"I don't know how she found it. But she did. And he—Aaron—sent it after her, tried to make it look like inter-pack violence so the police would suspect the Tremblés or something stupid like that. I—" he choked, buried his face in his hands and shook. "She might have been a norm but I loved her. And he let that _thing_ tear her apart like she was prey. Oh god, how could I—"

"What do you mean by 'thing'? What thing?" Ethan asked. "Is it another wolf?"

Ilan's laugh sounded closer to a croak, awful and creaky.

"You might say that." He jerked to his feet and stared down at Ethan. "It's his brother, it was born wrong. Like a monster out of a fairytale. He's had trouble containing it on full moons for awhile and it's been killing household pets. Mati found it. That's why he killed her. He's terrified that anyone outside the pack will find out about it. Aaron Maccabee's monster."

Ilan's faced smoothed out like a gaping hole, still damp from his tears. Ethan watched the pain and bitterness fall out of him with a sick twist in his gut. He knew that this monster was the same one from the other night. Aaron Maccabee's monster indeed.

Ethan pulled out his phone with trembling fingers; his knees popped as he stood. Dread curdled in his gut but he shot a quick text off to Patrick asking for a sit-rep and looked back at Ilan.

The werewolf's jaw flexed and he nodded.

"It's a constant battle to make people see us as thinking creatures; as something more than just a bedtime story. Norms are always afraid of anything _other_ , but I guess you'd know all about that?" Ilan scented the air with a pointed look. Ethan nodded. He'd encountered his fair share of prejudice over the years and he couldn't even turn into a four-legged, furry predator.

"It's not human, and it's not a wolf. He was born wrong, caught in between. And Aaron is terrified that the papers will find out about it. Use it to come after all of us."

"Then why doesn't he just..." Ethan hesitated.

"Euthanize his own brother? Could you?"

He didn't have a good answer to that. Ethan thought about his family, his father, his uncles, and the cousins he'd left behind and felt nothing.

Ilan stuck his hands in his pockets and cast his eyes on the ground between them. He said, "I really did love her. Whatever you think of me and my family, I really did. I would have bonded to her; made her my mate, wolf or not."

"I believe you. And I'm sorry about what happened. Telling me isn't going to be enough, though. I need you to come down to the station and make an official statement against your uncle. Do you think you can do that?" Ethan took a deep breath, decided to press just a little bit harder, "Are you _willing_ to do that for Matilde?" and waited.

The wolf glared at him but his eyes gave him away.

"You're a bastard, Ellison. You want me to make a statement implicating my own alpha. To cut ties with my pack." He held up a hand to forestall argument. "Because that's exactly what will happen. This is murder, the human justice system will go for his throat if the blood doesn't get there first."

Ethan ran his thumb across the edge of his phone.

"You think you'll be excommunicated from the pack."

"No, I know it. But what do I care, right? My mate's dead and my family killed her. Would you call that irony?"

"I don't know."

Ilan stared down at where Ethan kept checking his phone. "You waiting for a call?"

"No—well, sort of. Clanahan. He had a meeting with Aaron earlier."

"And you haven't heard from him?"

"No."

"You worried?"

Ethan shrugged when, inside his head, suspicion had taken root.

"You should be."

"Why? Maccabee wouldn't do anything to Clanahan at his own house. He isn't that bold, or desperate."

"I didn't think he'd sic his brother on a human in the middle of the city, but he did."

Ethan wasn't used to having a partner, wasn't used to watching someone's back. But he couldn't help the dread that curled in his gut either. Shit.

"It's more important that we get your statement on file," Ethan said. "Clanahan can take care of himself."

But Ilan still looked skeptical. The mage checked his phone; there was still no new messages and it was almost 4 PM.

"Did you drive here?"

Ilan nodded.

"Then lead the way."

The wolf cast one last look down at Matilde's grave, looking lost, before they turned and started the hike back to the parking lot. Ethan took the keys and they got on the road. Ilan stared out the passenger window with a blank expression.

"It's the full moon tonight," he said.

"What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing."

Ethan slammed on the breaks as they entered one of the tunnels running through downtown Seattle and traffic slowed. They crawled past a series of on and off ramps bumper to bumper with the car in front of them, Ethan cursing under his breath.

He couldn't stop thinking about Patrick. Doubt had been planted in his thoughts and it grew. He saw a sign for I-90 East coming up in half a mile. He checked his phone again, threw it onto the dash when it remained stubbornly silent and wrapped both hands around the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

If he was going to go after Clanahan he had to do it now.

"Is Clanahan in danger?" he demanded.

Ilan's reflection in the window blinked and his eyes dropped.

Ethan tried to calm his racing heart. Tried to focus on the freeway and what they needed to do back at the station, but his brain kept supplying images of his partner torn up and bloodied like Matilde Walker. Torn limb from limb and disposed in a back alley somewhere like a piece of garbage. It made his stomach turn, panic clawing at his throat until he couldn't breathe.

A hole in traffic opened up in the Exit Only lane and it wasn't even a decision. Ethan put his foot on the gas and took the Exit for Mercer Island.

## **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

##

It's hard to understand if you aren't a werewolf, but the moon is always there. A wolf is always aware of its pull to a greater or lesser extent, even when the sun is still in the sky and the moon isn't visible.

Everyone knows werewolves don't turn into uncontrollable ravaging beasts on the full moon. For one thing, they shift into wolves almost indistinguishable from wild wolves. And for another, they learn to control the shift at a very young age. And studies show that the average wolf retains full sentient autonomy during their shift. Even on the full moon.

Much later, Patrick will try to describe the moon as an ache in his teeth. Like a tension headache that no amount of aspirin can soothe. Only the shift, maybe a long run with the pack, is enough to treat it.

But here and now Ethan is unaware of the moon. He races towards the Maccabee estate with Ilan silent in the passenger seat and a lead foot on the gas peddle. They take off on I-90 and Ethan puts his phone on speaker and rings the station. A desk sarge picks up after three rings.

"This is Detective Ellison, is Captain Augustas still there?"

"Ellison? Hey, is it true you got tore up the other night? I heard it was pretty bad."

"Really not the time. Augustas?"

"She's already left for the night."

Ethan swore and changed lanes to get around a sedan trying to take a left hand turn on a busy street. The sergeant was saying something about animal attacks when Ethan jabbed the disconnect button and shoved the phone back in his pocket. He could feel Ilan's eyes following him.

"You got a plan?"

"You want the polite one or the less polite one?"

Ilan finally cracked a small smile and shook his head.

"Take the next left, we can cut through the school, since it's Saturday." He grabbed the suicide bar as Ethan threw the car into the turn. "You're a magician. So you've got a few tricks up your sleeve if they don't take too kindly to us showing up, right? Because they aren't going to be happy about it. Aaron's got a strict wolf-only policy for the house."

"It'll be fine," Ethan said as much to assure himself as to assure Ilan. As they pulled up outside the estate he told himself he was just overreacting. Patrick was probably just ignoring him or had forgotten to turn on his phone. Something stupid like that.

He hesitated, stared at the white and brick mansion through the afternoon sunlight. What if he barged in there and pissed off Maccabee again? What if he did something to jeopardize the case?

"You have to stay here," he told Ilan who responded with an angry frown.

"The hell?"

"I'm serious. You're our only witness. Whatever happens next I need to keep you apart from it. So please, just stay here, I'll be right back with Clanahan. And then we can go to the station and start the paperwork."

He glared at the wolf and injected all of his authority into his voice, said: "Stay," and locked the car doors behind him. It wouldn't be enough to keep the werewolf there if he didn't want to be, so Ethan set his hand against the hot metal and sent a jolt of energy through the car frame, frying the electronic locks.

He scrambled over the fence outside the property, cutting his hands a little on the rough stone and jogged up the drive. He didn't have a good chance of evading werewolf senses, at least not for long, so he had to move quickly.

A tug in the center of his chest led Ethan around the side of the house. He would laugh—following his instincts without a sign or shred of proof to find his werewolf. He shook his head, his _partner_ , not his werewolf.

Ethan stepped out of the trees next to the house and sucked in a surprised breath at the labyrinth laid out before him. It pulsed life, energy and green; it was beautiful. As he stared at the acres of manicured garden, an eery howl split the late afternoon air. He knew that howl, it was a sound straight out of a nightmare, one he'd lived.

He turned into the maze and started running.

#

Pat couldn't see anything at first. Inside, the little house was dark and grime covered the barred windows. Between that and the dark shadows cast by the trees overhead, it was like staring into a well of dirty ink. He blinked and dilated his pupils, let the color wash out until his eyes were all wolf, and that's when he caught the glint of chains rustling in the dark.

He pressed himself closer to the glass until the image resolved itself, almost the shape of a man. Curled up on the bare floor and dressed in dirty rags. Pat could have sworn it looked like he— _it_ was covered in fur.

"What the hell?" He jerked back and into Aaron Maccabee, who had stepped into his personal space. The alpha grabbed him by his shoulders and held him tight, fingers bunching his shirt and cutting into his skin. Pat would be surprised if he came away from this without bruises there in the shape of the other man's hands.

"You see why I had to do it."

"No..."

Maccabee hissed and his grip tightened. Pat winced. He could feel the other wolf's hot breaths against the back of his neck. The proximity made his own wolf squirm, but this was an alpha and a part of him was too afraid in that moment to struggle.

"Yes, you _see_ it."

"No!" He yelped as claws pierced his clothes. Fuck being polite. Pat tore himself free of the other wolf and ducked under his grip.

"What the hell is that, Maccabee?"

The man's face grew dark, the lines around his mouth creasing deeply. For the first time he looked every one of his sixty-odd years, the grey in his hair glinting in the dappled light.

"It's the monster, don't you recognize it? It's how they see us! And maybe they're right to," he muttered.

"That is not a werewolf," Pat protested. He could hear the lie in his words.

"It is. There are stories, you know, in the blood, ones we've tried to hide, even from ourselves. Of darker times when we walked on two feet beneath the full moon, when the blood lust drove us to hunt and kill. We've been feeding humans the lie about our own civility for so long we've forgotten what we came from."

"I am not a monster!" Pat shoved Maccabee out of his face and bared his teeth with a low, rumbling snarl. "And you aren't one just because you're a werewolf—you killed that girl, didn't you?"

"Not me," Maccabee huffed.

And a horrible realization struck Pat then. He looked back to the shack, imagined that _thing_ running Matilde down in the dark. Ethan said she'd seen her death coming. She'd known what was hunting her, had known she wouldn't be able to escape it.

"But you did unleash it. On Matilde Walker and—and on my partner." Anger reared its head in his chest and bayed for blood. He felt the light descend in his eyes, focus narrowing like a razor on the man who would dare to threaten his— _his_. Pat sucked in a deep breath, took the scent of his enemy deep into his lungs so he would remember it.

"Yes," Maccabee said. He looked Pat square in the eye, a challenge. "The girl would have told the wold about our secret—"

"It's not our secret."

"The norms out there wouldn't see to make the distinction. My problem is everyone's problem. The girl had to die."

"And Ethan?"

"I thought you could be persuaded to hush this all up, for your own family's best interests if nothing else. But I know your partner isn't one of us. He's not a wolf, he couldn't understand any more than that bitch. It was good fortune actually, that my dear brother," and his eyes strayed just a second towards the shack, "ran into him. Serendipitous even. Too bad he survived. I'll have to send someone else to take care of him once we're finished here. Unless you've come around to my perspective."

Maccabee stalked Pat back against the side of the house, eyes dark and foreboding.

"Do it for the blood. Do it for every werewolf in this city. Bury it and don't come looking for any more answers."

Pat felt the boards of the house against his shoulder blades, the ache from the alpha's hands. Inside, chains shifted and scraped across the floor. The monster had to be waking up.

He could feel the full moon in every cell in his body, lurking behind the sun. It was energy and life, screaming pack and _wolf_ through his blood. He knew who he was. He was Patrick Clanahan, son of Teagan, grandson of Ian, clan McClanahan, bound to a human mage who didn't know they were irrevocably connected to one another.

And he was not a monster.

Pat planted his hands in the alpha's chest and snarled.

The creature inside howled.

Maccabee's mouth twisted into a grimace. "I was afraid you'd say that." He lunged.

Pat's body slammed into the side of the shack under the weight of the older wolf. Maccabee got one large hand wrapped around his throat and the other around his left arm, cutting off his air with a snarl. Pat punched him in his left side floating ribs and brought his knee up between the alpha's legs, going for his weak spots and throwing the other man's weight off him.

The monster threw itself bodily against the wall behind Pat, chains rattling and snarls loud through the wood. The whole house shook. But he didn't have time to worry about the creature. Maccabee was clawing his way out of his suit jacket and tie and coming back for his throat. His teeth were sharp. Pat threw up his arm to take the worst of the blow and stumbled, trying to kick the alpha's legs out from under him.

They were petty evenly matched for height but, Maccabee had a solid twenty pounds on him in their human forms and decades of experience. He'd fought off plenty of challengers much more dangerous than Pat.

But as they wrestled, each trying to get a debilitating hold on the other, Pat knew he couldn't lose. Ethan was dead if he lost. That thought made a cold sweat break out under his collar and panic surge up in the back of his throat until he thought he'd choke on it.

Pat tore himself off of Maccabee's teeth. The alpha smirked around the blood in his mouth. The creature clawed at the house walls and kept howling. It wasn't like the sound a wolf should make. Twisted and dark like Maccabee's eyes.

"It's too bad you won't be reasonable about this, Patrick. Your clan has always put on such civilized airs. Like you're above all the petty in-fighting we revel in. Your mother's never even had to fight a challenger, has she?"

Pat buried his fist in the other wolf's smiling face.

"Shut up, this isn't about the blood. You're the only one here with a dirty secret you can't keep under wraps. Matilde Walker didn't deserve to die to keep your secret. And no one else is going to."

Aaron Maccabee tensed and looked up at Pat through his fringe, an unholy glint in his eyes.

"Oh, I see, it's that punk-ass mage, isn't it? You'd challenge me over him?" He threw his head back and roared in frustration, chest heaving for air. "You're as sick as my nephew panting after a little human ass. What the hell is wrong with this generation?" he asked the sky.

And of course, that was the moment the wall of the house next to them splintered and sheered away from the rest of the building with a tremendous _crack!_ and fell on top of them.

All the air rushed out of Pat's lungs in a painful _whoosh._ It felt like the whole god damn building had fallen on top of him even though that was impossible. The wood frame knocked Maccabee off his feet and Pat could hear the other man's head crack against something hard.

Two hundred pounds of snarling, furry muscle landed on Pat's chest, driving him into the earth. He squinted into the light, hacking and coughing, his lungs struggling to draw in air and flinched at the sight above him. The creature's face was a hideous mash-up: a human forehead and a wolf's jaw, huge, gleaming teeth dripping spit and opening wide to snarl. Powerful shoulders ended in long muscled arms and hands the size of baseball mitts tipped in curved claws.

The creature tore through the broken wall to get at Pat.

He had to put distance between himself and the—he refused to call it a werewolf—the thing before it tore him apart. His whole body aching, Pat scrambled away from it. He kicked one boot into the monster's face and rose on wobbly legs.

Teeth snapped at his ankles as he ran for the hedgerow. He felt all turned around and could only hope that he'd picked the right direction. The maze whipped past in sharp twists and turns, and all he knew was panic.

The monster took out a huge chunk of shrubbery in front of him, spitting leaves, and turned lidless black eyes on Pat. It lunged at him, sinking its claws into his thigh. A howl left his throat and turned into a scream from the pain, white hot and blinding. Pat twisted like an eel under the creature's bulk and clawed at it with gnarled hands, tearing out chunks of fur in the process. He threw all of his weight against it, punched and kicked and jabbed at any soft spot he could reach until it let go.

It may have walked on two legs, but its speed and strength far surpassed a man's. Even more, Pat realized what a miracle it was that Ethan had managed to escape this thing with all of his limbs still attached.

Now, he tore off his shirt and kicked off his shoes in a desperate bid to free his body enough for the shift. His wolf was much faster than his human form, if he could just keep the creature off his back for another minute—

Energy tingled through his body, set his nerves on end as Pat's bones broke and reformed, joints and internal organs rearranged themselves. He kicked out of his pants and started running. While it was true werewolves spent a significant amount of time scenting one another and everything around them, their strongest sense was actually their hearing. Like a wolf in the wild, he ran with his head down and tilted slightly to one side, ears cocked forward and back so he knew exactly where his pursuer was from the crash and echo of the foliage.

Pat ducked out from under the creature as it tried to pin him down again. Yelped as sharp claws scraped across his back. Hot blood stained his dark grey fur almost black.

He might have escaped if they'd been in the open or in the trees, but he was stuck in a maze without any clear idea how to get out. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out and he took a wrong turn.

A dead end loomed before him and both Pat and the monster crashed head first into the wall of branches. Wood snapped like bones under their combined weight. Pat landed on his back at an odd angle and cried out. He clawed at the bulk on top of him and twisted his heavy, muscled wolf head around to cover his vulnerable throat. But as he struggled, he could feel a hot twinge in his back that said something was seriously wrong.

The creature didn't fight like a wolf. Or like a man either. It dug its claws into his sides and threw him bodily into the shrubs, which tore at his fur and broke, until his legs were tangled up so bad he might as well have been tied there. Then the monster had the gall to go and grab him by the tail and jerk him back onto the path. It was both painful and humiliating, and Pat snarled.

He bent his head back over his shoulder and sank his teeth around the creature's thigh. It tasted awful, unwashed musky fur and bitter blood. Bone broke under his powerful jaw and triumph surged in his chest for a second; in the next, a heavy hand slammed into the side of Pat's head, dislodging him and throwing him onto the ground.

Black and grey filled his vision, wavered like a radio wave, then there was someone screaming in the air above him. Pat struggled against unconsciousness where he could feel it creeping in. His head felt three sizes too large, pulsing in time with his racing heart, and there was no part of his body that didn't hurt as he slipped away.

#

Ethan ran into the maze blind, just the sun overhead and that tug in his chest spurring him on. He didn't know what he was going to find except the monster at the center of the labyrinth. The same one that had tried—and very nearly succeeded—to take his head off.

Well, they always said you had to face your nightmares sooner or later.

He snorted to himself; Ethan would take a wolf-man any day over _his_ nightmares.

There were shouts up ahead and howls, more than one voice, before the whole field shook from a terrible crash. The closer he got to the center the clearer he could make out the sounds of snarls and breaking branches as something big tore through the maze.

Ethan pressed his dominant hand to his chest, over his heart, and cleared his mind. He had to be ready to defend himself, to fight. His sidearm was still in lock-up, which was stupid; he should have thought of that before he ran off to face down angry werewolves and mythic monsters. No time to regret that decision now, though.

The hedge exploded in front of him and two dark, furry bodies flew past him, snarling and snapping. The smaller one yelped, its head resounding with a sharp _crack_ against the hard packed ground and then lay still.

Something in Ethan's brain shifted aside, and he knew in that moment that the wolf was his partner. Torn up and bleeding and lying motionless.

And then he got his first good look at the monster—the alpha's brother, if Ilan was telling the truth—and he almost wished he hadn't. It regained its feet and turned on Clanahan, and Ethan knew this was the moment.

He clenched his hands and reached deep into his chest where there lived a ball of burning panic tying him to his partner, and channeled all of his focus through that point.

"Hey!" he screamed at the creature as it reached for the wolf. Ethan wasn't small, okay, he was average height and average weight and he kept in good enough shape to chase down pickpockets and house burglars. But even he would admit that charging and tackling the creature was probably an act of stupid desperation.

He had enough momentum to knock it away from Clanahan, if not off its feet, and then he was the only thing standing between the two werewolves. Ethan met its dead black eyes and swallowed the urge to flinch. There was no sign of Aaron Maccabee and he didn't have the time to wonder what the hell had led them all here.

White noise roared in his ears as Ethan narrowed all of his attention to the creature before him, spooled his panic out of his body like water and felt the earth turn under his feet. He thought, for a second, he could feel the moon surging through him as power coalesced in his chest.

The moment—

Clouds rolled in across the sky, blotting out the sun and thunder rumbled. Lightning split the sky, coloring everything gold and purple and blood red overhead. Wind kicked up loose dirt and leaves, blew Ethan's light hair back from his face.

Energy crackled from his fingertips.

The monster took a step towards him and stopped. It cocked its head and its nostrils flared, scenting the air. It growled low and deep enough to shake Ethan's body.

He met its eyes and stared an unflinching challenge. He didn't expect the creature to recognize him as an actual threat and back down, but Ethan took strength from his own daring. Behind him, Clanahan still hadn't stirred. Ethan was the only thing standing between the both of them dying bloody.

The creature seemed to make up its mind. It gathered itself and leapt. Ethan met it, wrapped his hands around the wolf's forearms and channeled heat and energy into the larger body. The smell of scorched flesh and burning fur filled his nose; it made him want to gag. Instead he threw his weight to the side as their bodies rolled to the ground.

Huge feet kicked him in the gut and knocked the air out of his lungs. Ethan let go and ducked under a clawed hand. He threw a handful of dirt under his arm and into the monster's eyes and scrambled away. Always careful to keep his body between Clanahan and the creature.

While the thing roared and scratched at its eyes, Ethan began a low, halting chant, stumbling over the latin:

_Invocato terram in fortitudine spiritus, _

_et animæ sanguinem meum, _

_inimicus obligat—_

_per fortitudinem meam tenemini!_

He pulled the silver knife out of its sheath and cut a precise line across his palm, grabbed another handful of dirt and started the chant again.

The creature's head snapped up as he started to circle it. Made to lunge, but Ethan raised his non-dominant hand and willed it to _stay,_ the same bit of spellwork he'd put on Ilan Maccabee at the car, with everything in him.

In the distance, a dozen wolves began howling.

Ethan closed the circle around the creature and felt the ache in his chest snap tight. With the last of his energy, he shuffled around the monster to where Clanahan lay to one side. Ethan collapsed to his knees next to the wolf and buried his shaking fingers in the dirty fur. He let out a soft sigh when he felt the slow rise and fall that meant his partner was still breathing.

"Oh, thank god," he murmured. Ethan wrapped one arm around the smaller body and grabbed his cellphone with the other. He was a little shocked to see it turn on and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity was looking after him that week.

The desk sergeant picked up on the third ring again.

"This is Detective Ethan Ellison, requesting back-up, a supernatural containment crew and an ambulance. Officer down. I repeat, officer down."

## **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

##

Monday morning found Detective Ethan Ellison seated in a hard chair outside his Captain's office. He'd been there an hour already, waiting to be called inside to give his report. But for now he waited.

Captain Augustas had called an unofficial meeting of the blood after they'd arrested Aaron Maccabee and taken his brother into holding. There were three alphas in there with her now: Martiene Tremblé, Pavle Sutalo and Clanahan's mother.

Ethan could see their blurry forms through the glass, but so far there hadn't been any shouting. He figured that had to be a good sign.

Alphas could be territorial and violent on a good day. Throw three of them into a tiny room together under the pressure of their current predicament and it seemed a lot like putting a lock on a pressure cooker and leaving it to explode, if you asked him. Not that anyone was.

So far people had gone out of their way to avoid eye contact with Ethan and no one was talking either.

He flexed his right hand. Where it should have hurt from the self-inflicted knife wound, there was nothing but unblemished skin. An EMT had packed it with gauze and wrapped it up on scene and he'd put it out of his thoughts until after the scene was processed later that night. By the time he'd unwrapped it, there had been no evidence left. More of Clanahan's wolf magic, he guessed. What else could it be?

Now he tapped an uneven rhythm against the armrest on the chair and juggled a tiny electric charge across the pads of his fingers. That was the other freaky thing, the magic he'd called up to use against the creature still hadn't dissipated even forty-eight hours later. Not unusual for magicians in general—a lot of power called up at once under stress sometimes lingered like a bad trip—but unheard of for this magician.

Ethan looked up and saw Officer Jim Jones walk across the squad room. Their eyes met for a second before Jones dropped his head and disappeared.

He sighed and slouched a little bit more in his chair. It looked like he was back at square one.

The door to Augustas's office swung open and the Captain addressed him.

"Ellison, there you are. Well, come on, answer time."

Inside, Teagan Clanahan looked like the only one not ready to pull her hair out by the roots and strangle someone with it. Sutalo, notoriously tight-lipped and reclusive, glared at the other wolves and Augustas in equal measure while Tremblé paced along the far wall of the office.

Ethan squared his shoulders and pasted a bland expression onto his face. From the corner of his eye he caught Teagan's speculative look, the way her eyes slid from his shoes to the top of his head and studied the side of his face. He glanced at her and she met his eyes, unwavering. It was pretty damn disconcerting, to be honest, but he'd just saved her son's life. That had to give him a big check in the plus column. Right?

She held out her hand and smiled at him, teeth covered.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Detective Ellison."

He shook her hand, warm and firm but not crushing, polite, and dipped his head.

"Same to you. How's Pa—Detective Clanahan, if you don't mind me asking? I couldn't stay at the hospital."

"He's fine. They didn't keep him very long. We've had him at home for his sisters to fuss over." She twinkled at him, like they were sharing some kind of in-joke. Ethan could all but hear her whispering, _you know how it is_ , in his ear; even though he didn't, not at all.

"Right."

Captain Augustas cleared her throat and sat back in her chair, hands firm on the desk.

"Detective, if you wouldn't mind giving your report in as few words as possible? Just so we're all on the same page, so we can move the fuck on and settle on an agreement?"

Tremblé snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Shut up," Sutalo growled back.

"Boys." Teagan held up a quelling hand and stared the other two down. The other alphas didn't drop their eyes but they did stop the staring contest, chose instead to stare at opposite walls and sulk in renewed silence.

Ethan covered his laugh with a cough.

"Yes, ma'am."

Augustas' eyebrow shot up, her expression clearly telling him she wasn't fooled.

"According to Ilan Maccabee's testimony, Matilde Walker—"

"The dead girl."

"Yes, was concerned when a number of dogs started going missing. She used her position at PetChIp to track the missing pet's movements and noticed a pattern. We're a little less clear on this next part, but it's my understanding that Aaron Maccabee's brother was born—wrong, for lack of a better term."

"The creature you contained on the Maccabee estate."

"That's right. For decades, Aaron has kept his brother secluded on the house grounds, feeding him wild animals and more recently—family pets. Ilan suggested they've had some trouble containing it on full moons the past couple years as well. Anyway, Matilde's investigation led back to Aaron. The night she was killed is the night she discovered the creature. Afraid of public backlash if his secret got out, Aaron sent it after her, to kill her. And that's it really."

Ethan coughed to clear his throat and glanced at the other werewolves in the room. They all looked varying levels of contemplative and disgusted.

"It probably didn't help that Aaron's favorite nephew was involved with a norm, either."

Teagan frowned, "Matilde and Ilan?"

Ethan nodded. "I guess Ilan considered her his mate and his Uncle was less than thrilled about it." He watched the way she frowned and looked away. Maybe interspecies disapproval was a common thing amongst werewolves, even if it hadn't stopped Patr— _Clanahan_ —from sleeping with him.

"Ilan Maccabee has already made an official statement with this department and agreed to testify against his uncle," Captain Augustas said. "The DA is going to pursue murder charges against Aaron Maccabee. That's not up for discussion. What I need to know is what to do about this—" she hesitated and turned to Ethan. "You said it was his brother. Do we have a name? Anything?"

He shook his head.

"There's no record of the birth, just what Ilan's said."

"I don't particularly care to call it a creature, but so far it hasn't showed any sort of sentience."

"Not unlike a rabid dog, is it, Captain?" Tremblé said. He looked like he'd been swallowing lemons.

"That's what we need to determine," she said, unperturbed. "If it isn't sentient then it can't stand trial for the murders and we'll have to decide what to do with it."

"Put it down, you mean?" Sutalo said.

"Maybe. But that's why you all are here. To come to some kind of consensus, not just posture at one another."

Teagan caught Ethan's eye and smirked behind her fingers.

Before the other two could take offense at Augastas's tone, Teagan clapped her hands together and brought everyone's attention to her.

"I have a proposal."

She had the same dark hair and pale blue eyes as Patrick, but hers fell in a long, dark curtain around her shoulders. Her skin was warm and tanned like his too. Strong, well-formed hands and muscles in her forearms and shoulders. She held the temperature of the room without ever having to raise her voice above a conversational tone.

"Captain, I think you will agree, we're in a bit of a delicate situation here. Matilde Walker's death hangs over all of us, over every wolf in the city. But it's the result of one man. No one here, not even Martiene, had any idea what Aaron was hiding in his back garden."

Tremblé glowered but didn't contradict her.

"What we don't want, is for this to cause unnecessary backlash amongst the community."

"You mean you don't want bad press."

"Does anyone?" she held Augustas's gaze and waited until the Captain nodded her acquiescence. "I didn't think so."

"Get to the point. What's your 'proposal?'" Sutalo said.

"Pin everything on Aaron, and quietly relocate the creature. I have family back in Ireland who might be willing to take custody of it. If Aaron's brother _is_ somewhere inside that thing, my grandfather might be able to rehabilitate him. It's the most humane option."

Ethan thought about the run down shack they'd found at the center of the labyrinth. The rusty chains and smell of decay and refuse. It had been a prison cell. He imagined what it would be like to live like that, bound in the shadows for decades. Feared and forgotten, hidden away from sight.

In a sick way he could almost sympathize. He knew what it was like to be the family's disappointment, the dirty little secret they tried to cover up, even if his own father had never gone to such extreme measures to keep him in line.

"Could you promise they'd do everything they could to help it, or uh, him?" Ethan asked.

Teagan nodded her head. "I could, Detective. So? What do you all think?"

Sutalo threw up his hands and stood. "I don't care happens to the creature, just keep it out of the papers. You want to take responsibility of it, be my guest."

"Tremblé?" Augustas prompted.

The other wolf ran manicured hands down the lines of his suit. He stood tall and spotless, not a hair out of place. After a tense minute he nodded.

"All right, Clanahan," Augustas said and leaned back in her chair. "You've got a deal. At least it means less on my plate. All of you get out of my office, I need to make a phone call." And like that they were dismissed.

Ethan followed the werewolves out of the Captain's office and breathed a sigh of relief. He looked up and found Teagan staring at him again with that knowing gleam in her eye.

"Something I can do for you, Alpha McClanahan?"

She wiggled her cell in illustration.

"Patrick said he was on his way up. I just thought I'd say hello before I left. Can you believe I've never seen him in his element," she gestured at the noisy squad room, "before?"

"Ah, right, shocking," he said. She was still staring at him. "While you're waiting, maybe we could get some contact info on record? I'm sure the Captain will want to arrange a custody transfer as soon as possible."

"Of course, dear."

Ethan twitched and glanced at her askance, led the way over to Clanahan's desk. The man had actual post-it notes in the top drawer and a pen organizer.

The alpha took both and wrote out a couple cell numbers and a name in neat copperplate.

"Great, I'll be sure to pass this along. And if you want to wait for Pa—Clanahan, he'll probably stop off here first. It's his desk." That at least made her chuckle and divert a little bit of the attention away from Ethan. He watched her head tilt towards the squad doors just before they swung open and her son strode into view.

Clanahan looked—

Well, he was conscious, walking on two feet and he wasn't bleeding, so he looked a hell of a lot better than he had the last time Ethan saw him. Fuck it, he looked amazing, dressed in jeans and a dark polo and sporting a scowl.

It reminded Ethan that he was standing right next to the guy's mom. He was careful not to look at Teagan, just shoved the post-it in his pocket and put the supplies back where he'd found them. The last thing he wanted to do was get a semi in front of the pack alpha.

"Mother."

"Patrick," Teagan greeted her son with a small smile and firm shoulder clasp. "Your partner was just showing me around the office."

Ethan smothered a nervous cough and shook his head when Clanahan's glare turned to him.

"No—it wasn't, there was—you look good!" he blurted and then regretted saying anything when both werewolves turned and looked at him. Teagan looking amused and her son... well he had a face. Fucked if Ethan could decipher it, even now.

"I mean, you're conscious and less furry, that's good."

The two Clanahans really did look like mirror images of one another, he thought. Teagan blinked first, her small mouth twitching as she turned to look up at her son.

"It's good to see one of you has a way with words."

Ethan stared at Alpha McClanahan's retreating back, and he knew his expression had to be pretty flabbergasted, but it couldn't be worse than the sour lemon look on Clanahan's. Small mercy. He cleared his throat.

"Good timing, by the way, Augustas just threw us all out of her office. I did the debrief so you get to write the report."

"I meant to be here sooner. I overslept."

"Don't worry about it. I do an awesome debrief."

Clanahan snorted and collapsed at his desk, started shuffling through the stack of papers in his inbox. And Ethan stood there, trying not to stare too much and failing. Where did they go from here? Sure, the final report had to be written up but Clanahan could probably do that in his sleep. Maccabee and his monstrous brother were in the hands of a higher authority now and Ethan was well rid of them.

Their case was effectively closed.

So should he shake the other guy's hand and say, _nice working with you, let's never do this again_? Or should he ask him out for drinks and a repeat performance of the other night before they parted ways for good?

Ethan noted the wolf's tense posture and reconsidered. Better to get out quietly and go back to doing what he did best—annoying lesser criminals and chasing misdemeanors. No sooner had he decided to make his excuses and disappear, then he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The magic under his skin crackled, a pinch to his nerves, and vanished.

"Detectives," it was the Medical Examiner, Janice Lynch, the magic null. She gave Ethan a brisk nod and angled her body so it opened towards Clanahan, with her back to the mage. A dismissal if he'd ever seen one. It almost made him laugh.

"I got the chance to study the new crypto-biological you brought in." She held out a slim report folder to Clanahan. "I matched the teeth to the wounds on Matilde. It's a fascinating specimen. There are several similarities to werewolves and several near-sapien creatures but it's distinctively its own sub-species."

Clanahan peeked under the report cover and hummed.

"That's great, Janice. But Ellison here did most of the heavy lifting on this one."

The Lynch didn't even a bat an eyelash at that, just leaned a little harder against the wolf's desk.

"Okay." Clanahan cleared his throat. "I'll get this filed with the official report."

Ethan watched his partner start to squirm in his seat under the ME's expectant expression and snorted under his breath. The awkward silence stretched out until it was too much for him, that and the way Lynch made the blood pound in his temple to the tune of a migraine just from her proximity.

He opened his mouth and stopped. Was there really anything left to say? He shook his head at himself and left as unobtrusively as possible.

#

Lynch leaned closer and cracked a smile. It wasn't a bad smile, even Pat could see that, though it left him feeling awkward and off balance.

"Thank you?" he said.

"No problem, detective. It was good to work with you again."

He blinked up at her.

"Right."

"So, if you need to go over these results, or anything, I know a great coffee place." Lynch tapped her finger against the folder, almost touching him. "If you think the coffee is bad up here you can't imagine the dreck we get down in the basement."

Pat could feel the warmth coming off of her skin from how close she'd gotten, the soft curl of perfume mingled with medical grade preservatives. It made his nose itch. He leaned back in his chair, put a couple of inches between them so he could breathe again.

"I'm sure your report speaks for itself. But thanks."

When he looked around for Ethan to back him up, the mage was nowhere to be seen. Pat craned to look around Janice, eyes scanning the squad room and his ears cocked but there was no sign of his partner.

"Did you see Ellison leave?" he interrupted her talking about the coffee again. Janice frowned at him, a tiny line appearing between her blonde eyebrows.

"Excuse me?"

"Ellison? Never mind. I've got to go. Thanks again for the—" he gestured with the file before he shoved it into his desk drawer, "the forensic exam." He was on his feet and out the door a minute later.

He took the stairs and hovered outside the first floor squad room, listening for the familiar heartbeat, but Ellison wasn't anywhere in the building. He headed out to employee parking next and sure enough, he caught sight of a slim besuited figure on the other side of the lot. Ethan stood next to his shiny silver Audi, one hand on the roof and the other in his pants pocket, disrupting the perfect drape of his suit coat.

"You were going to leave, just like that?"

Ethan jerked his head up to meet Pat's eyes. Shrugged.

"Case is closed."

It was true and it made frustration well up in the werewolf's chest all the same. He blew out a heavy breath and stared at the man's navy silk pocket square, all crisp edges and a splash of color against his somber black suit.

"There's still a lot to do."

"You know where my inbox is. Besides, I've been taking statements all weekend. Your mum offered to take the beast off our hands but until that goes through and the DA moves on Maccabee, there's not much left to do. Except sleep. And I, for one, would like to actually get some."

Ethan twisted away and then back, jerked his hand out of his pocket and stuck it out to Pat awkwardly. Pat took it on automatic.

"It's been—interesting," he said.

The other man's skin was warm and smooth, but Pat already knew that well. He folded his hand around Ethan's slim fingers and held on. Screwing up his courage, Pat glanced up and met tired green eyes; such a contrast to Ethan's pin perfect clothes.

He didn't want this to be the end. Everything in him turned over at the thought, stomach swooping, wolf hunkered low and miserable. But he didn't know how—well, he just didn't know.

"I'm glad you're okay," Ethan said.

He pulled his hand away and Pat made himself let go. It hurt something in his chest, a sharp tug right beneath his breastbone.

"I know it's been hard for you to work with me, so thanks for not tearing out my throat. And you know, if you ever get lonely for this," he made a curious gesture at his face and grinned half-heartedly, "you can always stop by the rabbit warren."

"Sure," Pat swallowed around the word.

Ethan smiled, pulled his keys out of his pants pocket and got into his car. The engine didn't really roar, but it purred to life, all sleek modern lines and foreign engineering.

Pat watched him pull out and drive away. And as he did, the thick Seattle cloud cover darkened and it began to rain.

#

_You have to remember, your wolf knows what it wants even if your mind does not. But it's up to you, child, to reach out and connect. If you don't, if you hesitate, you might just miss your moment._

_~ Teagan Clanahan, Alpha McClanahan, to her son Patrick, age 8_

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Ethan and Pat's story continues in BLOOD & BONE Book 2: _The Convergence Theory_
If you enjoyed this story please consider leaving a quick review—it only takes a couple minutes and would be very much appreciated!

x.o.x.o,

Lia

**Want to stay up to date? **

Join the mailing list or follow Lia's blog, on twitter or send her an email.

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**About the Author**

Lia Cooper is a twentysomething native of the Pacific Northwest, a voracious reader and an enthusiastic writer. She wrote her first short story when she was seven. THE DUALITY PARADIGM is her first published full length novel.

She enjoys binge watching shows on Netflix, all-but-living in her local coffee shop, and drinking americanos. Lia cheers for the Chicago Blackhawks, rereads _Pride & Prejudice_ every year, and is still bitterly disappointed over the cancellation of Stargate Atlantis (shhh).
**Want to stay up to date? Join the** **mailing list** **! **

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**Other Works by Lia Cooper**

**Blood & Bone Trilogy**

The Duality Paradigm (Book One)

The Convergence Theory (Book Two)

The Symbiotic Law (Book Three)

A Sanguine Solution (Book Four Coming 2017!)

**The Profane Series**

Medium Rare (Book One)

Vapor Trail (Coming 2017)

**The Kingdom of Pacchia Series**

The Omega Prince (Book One)

All the King's Men (Book Two)

The Honorable Beta (Book Three)

The Line of Allora (Book Four)

An Alpha's Worth (Coming 2017)

**A Palouse County Romance**

Cold Press (#1 Holiday Novella)

Coy Trick (#2 Holiday Novella)

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**Stand Alone Titles**

Hotspot (M/M Soulbonding Contemporary Magical Realism)

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**Complete Works can be found on Lia's Website:**

http://liacooper.com/

