

# Race the Night

by

## Deb Elliott

This is a work of fiction; all the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. It is protected by national and international copyright laws. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

RACE THE NIGHT

Copyright 2010, Deb Elliott

Cover art by Tina Murphy

Edited by Julie Ricks

ISBN-10: 1942594003

ISBN-13: 978-1-942594-00-0

### Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mom, Barb Elliott and lifelong friend, Sandy: for all the years of love, through your struggles, you've taught me to never give up and to be true to my dreams.

##

### Other Works by this Author

### Midwestern Shapeshifter Series

Race the Night (book 1)

Bring It Home (book 2)

Triple Threat (book 3)

"An Auld Lang Syne Christmas" (3.5)

Enduring Change (book 4)

## Chapter 1

In my mind's eye, a certain serial killer's smug face overlays the off-white canvas of my small kicking bag. _Wham!_ I let him have it with a high roundhouse kick. The bag leaps on its chains, jangling against its ceiling mount, swinging wildly and spinning against the mudded and taped sheetrock backdrop of my basement workout room. I pause to shake back my hair. It's still wet around the hair line from my fuming four-block march from the Saint Paul bus stop in Minnesota's late June heat and humidity. I line the bag up—the bastard's wet-lipped smirk in my sights this time--wind up and smash a spinning back fist into it. _Pow!_ Thankful for fingerless gloves protecting my knuckles from rough canvas, I dance and jab. Pulverize the face that will haunt my dreams. Something's digging into my shoulder; a glance shows a sports bra strap, twisted in my haste to ditch my court clothes, Minneapolis-Saint Paul Police departmental dress blues. I adjust it and focus back in. _Evil piece of crap._ I snarl at his imaginary face and paste it with a solid front stance punch. _Kapow!_

As a homicide detective—youngest ever in the department with the highest case close rate—I'm "celebrating" my most recent win. Not. A huge murder trial, multiple counts, first degree. _Whap!_ The jury convicted him, but the sicko never admitted to anything. _Whop!_ He wouldn't give up the names of the others he'd murdered, either—couldn't see any benefit in it for him. And...I could _smell_ his satisfaction. Four more round house kicks make me feel a little better...that and the fact I'm beginning to sound like an old comic book. Poking fun at myself helps, too. I snap off a side kick, and my cell phone rings.

I grab it and answer, "DJ Jessaray" and forget to duck the bag on its backswing. "Ow!" I rub my head; now, I'm _really_ in a bad mood.

Through the phone, a deep masculine voice chuckles, saying, "Hey, DJ, we've got a cat situation over in your neighborhood." It's my partner, Jordan Burke, a.k.a. Jordy. "It's a bad one, according to the officer who just called it in." Snagging one glove's Velcro strap with my teeth, I pull and begin unwrapping my fist.

In the background, I hear a rousing chorus of "Meows" from the ever-hilarious guys in our squad.

"Side-splitting," I remark drily. They _love_ that I'm the "cat lady" and commemorate each outing with a gift. Cat Woman action figures on my desk now number in the teens.

I growl, "Why didn't you tell them to call Animal Control? You know I won't handle animal scenes anymore -- especially since I trained Animal Control myself."

The background noise recedes as he moves out of range. "Evidently, it's a tiger and a kid. Animal Control says it's way too tense for them."

I mumble unflattering opinions of AC. "They've got the dart guns, right?"

"Yeah, but the cat is really big and smart. He's staying out of range, and the kid's behind him. They think it requires your special talent."

_Of course it does._ I sigh. "All right."

"I'll pick you up. I've never seen the Cat Lady in action." I can almost see the shit-eating grin on his face.

I roll my eyes. "Knock yourself out."

I hang up and sprint up the steps to shower. No way am I going itchy and smelly. My cats scatter in front of me, eyes big as headlights. I race through the kitchen, dining room, and turn a sharp right into the hall to lunge across it into the bathroom. Ears flat to their heads, my kitty companions crouch in the bathroom doorway, tails fluffed, waiting to see what their unpredictable slave will do next.

"Sorry, boys," I soothe, hauling my sports bra off over my head. I shove it and my shorts down the laundry chute. "It's an emergency."

Barely waiting to see if the spray will scorch or freeze, I brave the shower. What's the secret to my success as a detective? I cheat—well, not really, but I've got something the others don't. I'm one of the few with great responsibility. Like Spiderman. (Hmm, a comic book comparison again... _so_ not good.) I've got a talent, but it's not very cool or exciting.

The source of my success is associated with the least attractive feature on my face—my nose. It lets me sniff out a killer and track him down. And, this nose is no sweet little nub or delicate Roman arch. It's this long, knobbed ski-slope that broadens out across my face unattractively when I smile. I'll never be the next top model with this schnoz, but, hey, that's not my gig. Once I get a killer's scent, though, it's inevitable. If he stays in my territory, I find him. To me, a trail is as seductive as six-pack abs. Not that I mind a fine set of pecs either, but give me a good case, and I'm gone.

Where'd it come from? From my mom, I guess. She has the same talent, only hers is for sickness. She can smell it in her animal patients.

I noticed my talent first when I started dating. When I'd get my first up-close whiff of a guy, I _knew_ whether he was okay, pretty cool, or something awfully dangerous to my virtue...and even, very occasionally, downright homicidal.

I jump out of the shower, towel off, hurdle the kitty boys who scatter like bee-bees and scoot through my bedroom doorway. Drawers get thrown open; I grab panties and jeans, hike them over my hips, zip, and button. An impatient horn blares in front of my house.

"Keep your pants on, Burke!" I yell—as if he can hear me. I haul a tee shirt over my head, jam my feet into running shoes and dash. On the way out the door, I catch up my bag, cell phone, belt with gun, holster and badge.

Rushing down the front steps into the dusk, I aim the key fob over my shoulder to engage the security system—and fall off the side of one shoe. My toe flips the shoe onto the sidewalk ahead—where I promptly stumble over it and drop my keys. Then, I dodge and weave, grabbing futilely as everything else rains to the ground.

At the curb, the window slides down in Burke's sleek black Acura. He's guffawing as I scrabble around on the sidewalk for my stuff. Muttering threats, I pick up the shoe and carry it with everything else as I limp double-time to the car. Yep, I'm klutzy—been a lifelong curse.

Burke doesn't open the car door for me because he's laughing so hard. _Jerk_. I grit my teeth and lift the handle with my last free pinky. Nudge the door open with various ill-suited parts of my anatomy. Collapse into the seat, drop everything on the floor, pull the seat belt over and snap it. Through this, I'm snapping, "Laugh it up, Mr. Hilarity. Lives are at stake. Drive!"

I lean over my feet, finally tying my shoes, wet hair flopping into my eyes.

Accelerating, Burke wheezes, "Jess, you are soooo sexy...."

"Up yours." I snarl.

Burke leans over the steering wheel, giggling, holding his stomach with one hand.

I pull a brush and hair claw out of my pack and start whipping my hair into some semblance of order."You're about two inches from being strangled, Burke. I've had a shit day, and I'm not in the mood for this."

He laughs harder, then glances my way and stops. I'm twirling my long hair into a tight roll, ready to fasten it to the back of my head. I blink at him. "What?"

"You...uh...seem different."

I freeze. _Eeeeeek_. I was moving so fast that.... I ram the claw into my hair, clamp my elbows to my sides and nonchalantly but quickly cross my arms over my chest.

Jordy clears his throat, eyes steadfast on the road. "Say, uh, do you wear one of those minimizer or sports bras to work?"

I round on him. "If I don't get the details of the case _right this second_ , you're going to wish _you'd_ worn a cup!"

Burke rolls both lips inward. I can see the edges still tilting upward and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. _Brat._

"Paybacks...." I warble.

Burke sobers, shuddering. He's had my paybacks before, and the framed photos in the squad room tell the pathetic tale.

He fills me in as he drives. The situation is standard, except for the kid. Some fool decided he wanted an exotic cat as a pet in the city. In my humble opinion, anyone who keeps a tiger in an apartment deserves to be eaten by it. Harsh, I know. But, my mom runs a refuge for exotic cats along with her veterinary practice. She takes in "inconvenient" exotics, ones raised as pets until the owners realize they have an undomesticated apex predator in the house—duh. So, I grew up with abandoned or unwanted big cats and helped hand-rear some for her captive breeding program.

After a prolonged but comfortable silence, Burke asks casually, "When are you and Cathcart getting together again?"

Sore subject. I stiffen. "This weekend as a matter of fact, and he's still on special assignment." I've been engaged to Ryan Cathcart for six months now, and Burke doesn't approve. Ryan's FBI. Partner and boyfriend hated each other on sight.

"Oh, yeah," Burke lounges back in his seat, an arm extended over the top of the steering wheel with an artistically relaxed wrist. "That's right, extra-special, secret, double-undercover assignment. Very hush-hush."

I shoot him the stink eye, but what can I say? I haven't seen Ryan for a month, and Burke knows it. Ryan's been on special assignment since just after I met him. It's something ultra-creepy. So out-of-the-ordinary that he, a veteran agent, looks pale after he hangs up the occasional cell phone call in my presence. We have a date set up for this weekend—seeing my niece's summer play—the other details worked out through text messages. That's just the way it is right now.

"No wonder you're on edge, Jess. It's been a while."

I sigh. That _again_? My squad mates just _can't_ believe I can hold out and stay sane. Like my sex life is any of their business anyway. And, what, I have no other way to relieve my stress? Punching the bag, hello....but _this_ is an opening I've been waiting for....

"Who's on edge? Did you forget that self-pleasuring gadget _someone_ left on my doorstep at Christmas?" The source would have been a real mystery, except for my nose.

He assumes an innocent expression, but a roguish twinkle lurks in his eye.

I continue smoothly. "Now, why would I let such a gem gather dust? I'm all stocked up on that tingly brand of KY Jelly, too. Mmmmmm."

I steal a quick glance to my left. Burke is bright red. Not a good match with his auburn hair—clashy, in fact. He never thought I'd pin that little gift on him, the twerp.

I'm feeling a bit smug. Just try getting under my skin on court day, and I'm taking off the gloves. If he brings the gadget up later, I'll deny it categorically as a figment of his over-heated imagination. All's fair in the war of verbal one-up-manship, after all.

"Uh, earth to Burke, that's the place behind us, isn't it? The one with all the blue and red flashing lights, the ambulance, and the Animal Control van out front?"

Burke curses and flips a U-turn at the next intersection. I start deep breathing to get myself ready to use my other mojo on the big cat.

My mojo—how cheesy, right? But, see, I have this thing that lets me sense and work with energy. You know, those electrical fields we all have around us—those aura thingies? They're energy. I can't see them; I just...sense energy and can push it around outside myself—mentally, that is. Totally and completely weird, I know. It started when I noticed strange sensations as I was doing tai chi last year—this tingle flowing through me as I moved. Talked about it with my best friend, who's into New Agey stuff. She worked with me, and now I can project energy and emotion in the form of a cloud...at least my cats simmer down when I project calm at them, anyway.

This neighborhood's typical for Midway, blue-collar, houses built in the early decades of the twentieth century. Well-kept lawns, one-and-a-half or two-story residences with an occasional brick apartment house thrown in, which is the site of this disturbance. Street lights illuminate its battered aluminum storm door.

Burke double-parks beside a black-and-white patrol cruiser. I step out of the car. Catch Burke's eyes on my chest as I don my belt with gun and holster. Yep, he sees I'm unencumbered. What can I do? I stride into the building, head high. At least I'm firm. Thank you, martial arts.

The olive green carpet in the entryway has seen better days. It points the way up stairs to where voices rumble and radios squawk. I follow the dirty worn treads upward, Burke behind me. After I turn onto the second flight, I can see the blue back and heavy black gun belt of an officer standing behind the tan and brown uniform of Animal Control. More blue uniforms spread out down the hallway, keeping curious residents in their apartments or directing foot traffic away from this end of the hallway. EMTs with a stretcher stand by.

I hold my badge over my head as I worm past the guys on the stairs. "Jesseray, Homicide," I announce.

Somebody says, "She's the cat lady. Let her through."

"Who's in charge?" I ask. The guy nearest the door with his gun out jerks his chin up at me. I insert myself behind him.

"The mom is down in the living room. Looks like she hit her head on the coffee table when the cat took a swipe at her. The cat's still in the kitchen, kid too. We got one dart into the cat, but he's not going down."

I slant a look at the AC guy with a dart gun on the opposite side of the doorway. He shrugs, "Standard dosage for a big cat. The fast-acting stuff, too."

"How big is the cat?"

"See for yourself." AC steps back from the doorway, and I take his place and stick my head into the room.

A cheap couch and love seat exhibit ripped cushions; lamps lie broken on the tattered area rug. The woman lies on the floor next to an overturned coffee table. She's breathing but pale. Claw marks slash across her pink tee-shirted stomach – not deep, thankfully, but oozing blood; the top of her jeans stopped the claws. No sign of the cat. Something tickles the back of my mind. Something about her features—a hint of familiarity.

I stick my right hand out behind me. "Give me the dart gun." Warm metal settles onto my palm. I check the magazine; four more darts.

"Kitchen's to the left through that archway." The guy in charge points.

"After I go in, grab the mom, okay? The cat'll be focused on me."

"Will do."

I step cautiously into the room, breathing slow and silent. Take two more steps around the love seat toward the kitchen archway. I can smell the cat now, a male tiger. He's definitely stressed. But something's different about this one. The scent's ranker, yet sweet too. Again, something...familiar? I take another step and then I hear it -- a bass growl. Instinctive fear slides cold fingers down my nape, leaving raised hair in its wake.

Mentally shoving down the fear, I visualize, forming energy into a little ball of peace and calm and push it out in front of me, expanding it into a three-foot cloud. I step around the furniture to see more directly into the kitchen, dart gun ready.

I'm crooning, "Good baby, that's a good boy, gooooood kitty." Then I see him, a full-grown Bengal tiger. A gorgeous specimen—huge, bigger than normal by three or four inches at the shoulder. If it weren't for its deep coppery coat, I'd've thought he was a Siberian. _What are they feeding him, Meow Mix for Monsters??_

He snarls, obviously smelling my fear. I push the cloud over his head. Still can't see the shoulder to get a shot in. The tiger shakes his head, ears flapping, all russet, white and black-striped glory. I can hear the little boy snuffling, then a whimper. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

"Goooood boy, come on out just a little further, honey, thaa-aat's it. You're a beauty." Sweat trickles down my temple. I ease a little further to the right, trying to get its left shoulder in my sights. I push a little more firmly with the cloud and see the tiger's eyes begin to glaze over. Take another tiny step to the right. There's the shoulder. I clamp the cloud around its head. Orange eyelids droop. I fire twice. The tiger should go down pretty fast, but I'm not taking any chances. I turn to leap for the doorway.

A shrieking snarl numbs my right ear. Fire rips into my shoulder. I hear myself scream. Agony spreads across my back as claws dig deep. I stagger, hitting the edge of the couch. It flips over onto us, blocking guns now bristling through the doorway. The couch's top edge slams against the tiger's jaw and shoulder, loosening its grip. I roll completely under the couch. It thuds to the floor over me, dislodging the tiger.

A distant voice in the back of my head demands, _Do they have Kool-Aid in those darts??_ I'd pumped enough drugs into him to stop a whale.

Gunfire thunders, the cat roars, and glass shatters. Wonder of wonders, I'm still conscious. A cacophony of voices: "It jumped out the window!" "Call for more back up!" "It can't go very far. It had to break something in that fall." "Get another stretcher!" Footsteps thump down the stairs, others toward me. Dust and fibers clog my throat. I cough.

"Jess! Jess!" The couch lifts off of me, and I'm turned over, "Are you all right?" Burke's panicked face appears in a narrowing circle of light.

I grin weakly. "'S just a love bite."

An EMT elbows him aside, yelling, "Get out of the way!"

Everything goes black.

_Beep...beep...beep...hisssssss. Beep_ ...my eyelids try to open. They're gummed together. Lovely. I reach up to pry my attractively sticky eyelids apart. That antiseptic smell, the beeps, the ungodly uncomfortable mattress beneath me—I'm in the hospital. My whole body aches, especially right over my heart. Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Not good. I grimace and groan. That tiger really got me. I'm gonna have _good_ scars. Try to roll onto my back...nope, better stay on my side. Darkness broken by green light from monitors surrounds me.

"Jess." Somebody whispers. "You awake?"

"Not thrilled about it," I croak.

I hear a big sigh of relief. I'd know that sigh anywhere—heard it a million times on stakeout.

"Considering the alternative...." Jordy asserts.

No argument here. "Any water around?"

Rustling and clunking, a curse as he trips over something.

"How 'bout some light?"

A grumble off to my left, and the over-the-bed fluorescent flickers on. Through my squint, I see Burke leaning over the bedrail; he's tipping up a white Styrofoam cup. Tepid but soul-satisfying. While I'm busy, he sneaks a kiss onto my forehead. Opportunist. I smile a little.

"Thanks, partner."

He settles back into his chair, top button on his blue oxford shirt open, tie askew, five-o'clock shadow rampant. His curly hair stands up in wild tufts, like he's been pulling it. He does that when things are out of control.

"You look like crap, Jordy. How long you been here?"

"Since it happened. And you're personally responsible for my appearance, Jess. We almost lost you."

I gape. "From a few claw marks and a bite on the shoulder? That's hardly life-threatening. Unless the tiger hit an artery?"

"Nope, but you totally spazzed out afterward—convulsions, foaming at the mouth, the whole nine yards. They had to shock you back three times."

Wow. "That's..."

"Sobering? Yeah, majorly."

We both look at each other, a little wide-eyed. Neither of us had been _that_ cozy with the Reaper before.

Uneasy with all the unspoken feelings in the room, I pull down the shoulder of my Paris-original hospital gown (butt-flashing is in this year) and pick at the bandages there.

"What are you doing?" Jordy's eyebrows meet in exasperation.

I whine, craning my neck. "I just wanna see...."

We bicker comfortably as I nibble at the bandages with my fingertips. Finally, I peel the gauze back. One big blot of blood mars the bandage right under my collarbone and another three inches higher. That cat was huge; he could have killed me if he'd really wanted to. I frown and rub the places where the fangs went in. No wounds – pink indentations on my skin – a little sensitive, but that's all. That's it. That's...just plain weird.

"Jordy?" My voice quavers.

On his feet in an instant, he stands over me, examining the wound site. His face turns pale. "Jess?" I've never heard him sound that...lost.

"Maybe you should let my fiancé and me chat for a minute, Detective Burke." That voice from the doorway in its most formal FBI tone yanks my head above the bedrail.

"Ryan?" Sheer joy in my voice. I hold out my arms, and Ryan sweeps to the bed with his usual grace. A former gymnast and multi-belted martial artist himself, Ryan flows when he moves.

Burke takes one look at my face and is out the door.

Ryan stoops to cradle me gently, and I lean into his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like honeysuckle, rightness and...home. My eyes leak.

Ryan backs off long enough to smile at my tears. His bright blue eyes draw me like iron filings to a magnet. He wipes a tear off with his thumb and whispers, smiling, "My tough girl." Then his lips meet my trembling ones.

My body stiffens in instant arousal, and little hungry noises seep from my throat. Yes, my whole body aches, but I don't care. How I've missed him, needed him. Need him even more with a near-death experience and this bewilderingly healed wound. There's something about Ryan that makes me feel safe, yet sets me on fire. We are lighter fluid and flint, gasoline and spark. The taste of him is the most potent aphrodisiac ever. A delicate tongue tip tastes the edge of my lower lip and, heedless, I open my mouth. His tongue dips in to slide sensuously against mine, and then licks and sips and sucks at my mouth until I'm boneless in his arms. Reluctantly, his lips lift, and he rests his forehead against mine, both of us breathing heavily, eyes glazed.

He groans, "If we don't stop right now, I'm going to be in that bed with you and damn the nurses."

"Damn the nurses then." Ignoring my pain, I angle his chin with one hand and swoop up, curving my mouth over his, lost once again in his lusciousness, sucking his lower lip, running my tongue tip over its inner edge. His hand find the edge of my hospital gown and slide up my outer thigh, hip and flank. My back arches hard as they close, higher. His mouth drops to bite its way down the left side of my neck as my body strains in abject urgency toward his.

Suddenly, he's gone. I'm left gasping, chest heaving, disbelieving.

Then, I see the hulking figure who hauled him away from me. I'm talking former linebacker, shoulders that mock any doorway and massive all the way to his tree-trunk braced, black leather tie-ups–size fourteen, at a guess. A tiny guy, yeah. Beady black eyes sink under a jutting uni-brow, lantern jaw tight like his thin, nearly colorless lips. Dressed in the typical FBI black suit, white shirt and black tie, he's also panting.

"Agent Cathcart, you're here on assignment." His flat tone registers button-downed, FBI. "For the integrity of our mission, I'm glad I ran up five flights."

Ryan, who was bounced off a wall, staggers, finds his balance with a hand on the wall, protesting, "She's my fiancé, dammit, and I haven't seen her in a month. And, she almost died! Give me a break."

"Who the hell is this, Ryan?" I demand.

The linebacker eyes me grimly, "Supervising Special Agent Trevor Smith, ma'am." He turns and rips into Ryan again. "Agent Cathcart, you're on duty, so act like it. After all, she's infected and a threat to national security." The controlled, soft tone mocks Ryan's momentary loss of decorum.

"Infected? Me?" I'm not so careful about being overheard and get shushed by both of them.

The 'tiny' man eyes me. "Yes, ma'am. You've been infected by a virus that's been declared a threat to the nation." He matter-of-factly approaches the bed, slips a handcuff around my unresisting left wrist and locks it onto the side bedrail.

"Ryan?" I hate the quiver in my voice.

"Honey—"

"Don't 'honey' her, Agent. She's a criminal." Tiny trains those bitter chocolate lasers on me. "Ma'am, you're not to leave this room without written permission and an armed escort."

"Written permission? Surely that's overkill." Ryan holds out conciliating hands, voice utterly reasonable. "And, respectfully, sir, she's not a criminal. She hasn't done anything yet,"

Hmm, so this is Ryan's boss. I'm _so_ not impressed. "Hey, I'm sitting right here, guys. Talk to _me_."

Ryan's boss eyes me like I'm dog crap on his shoe. "Ma'am, when I'm ready to take your statement, I'll let you know."

Ryan protests, "Hey—"

I cut him off. "'Ma'am?!'" Now, I'm getting mad. 'Ma'ams' are for stooped, white-haired old ladies. Nobody'd better 'ma'am' me without an act of God behind it. "I'm not a criminal, and my contributions to this conversation are very relevant since it involves my personal freedom, Tiny."

Ryan dips his head to hide a grin. "Sir, she has no idea what's going on. Surely—"

Tiny cuts him off this time. "The name's Supervising Special Agent Smith, ma'am, and you're under arrest." The corner of Tiny's eye twitches.

I bark, "If you call me 'ma'am' one more time, Tiny, I'm going to snatch your hairy ass bald!"

Tiny's mouth drops open, and his eyes bulge. Ryan guffaws, then covers his mouth. After a fraught silence, Tiny holds out a hand to Ryan. "Give me your cuffs."

"But, can't we answer _some_ of her questions? Doesn't she deserve to know why this is happening to her?" But ever-dutiful Ryan hands his cuffs over. My head turns, tracking Smith as he rounds the bed, heading for my other hand.

Snatching it out of reach, I spit, "Before you assault my person further, Tiny, you'd _better_ explain the charges I'm being arrested for. I'm an officer of the law, an MSP homicide detective. _And_ , as a citizen of the homeland I'm supposedly a threat to, I have the right to know why I'm a threat to it."

Tiny looks across the bed at Ryan. "See, Cathcart, she's exhibiting symptoms already."

"What symptoms?" I'm so pissed that I'm nearly screeching.

His wavy light brown hair rumpled, Ryan leans back against the wall and informs him, "No, sir. This is just Jesseray in high dudgeon. If you were one of her brothers, you'd be on the floor right now, smacked down."

Tiny mouths _high dudgeon_? I aim a smiling glance at Ryan, but he's pale and won't meet my eyes.

"The charges, Tiny?" Icicles hang off each word.

Tiny straightens, squaring lumberjack shoulders. "Special Agent Smith, please, Detective Jesseray. You were attacked tonight by a massive Bengal tiger."

Really," I drawl.

Smith clears his throat. "That was no ordinary tiger, ma'—Detective. It was a supernatural being, a shapeshifter. They've been declared a threat to national security because every single one we've encountered has been a vicious killer. Therefore, because that shapeshifter infected you with the virus, you are now a shapeshifter and a threat to national security."

This time my mouth drops open. "What? Shapeshifters are real?? That's _insane_. I've never heard—but I'm law enforcement. Wouldn't I know if there _were_ such things?" I gulp, feeling the starch go out of my spine. "But... how do you know I'm infected?"

Ryan straightens and comes over to take my cuffed hand. "If they bite you deeply, you're infected, DJ. The virus is in their saliva, and it instantly penetrates deep into your tissues. People go into convulsions when the virus begins working on them. Some die. Most women do. Those who survive heal very quickly afterward."

I pull the bandage off my shoulder, exposing the healed fang marks. They both stare grimly. Tiny nods. Ryan turns away, his face tight with pain.

Ryan's reaction shocks me, but I let it sink in. The evidence is irrefutable. "Jordy told me I'd had convulsions. He said they shocked me back to life three times."

I close my eyes. Maybe it would have been better if they hadn't saved me. I shove the thought violently away. I'll fight for every moment of this life.

I look up at Smith. "Okay, what does this mean? I'm a _shapeshifter_ now?" I mutter under my breath, "This is like the campiest horror movie ever and continue in a normal tone. "So, what, now, I'm cursed? And during the full moon, I'll turn all furry, and you guys will shoot me with silver bullets?" I try for a laugh, but it comes out a wheeze.

Both men are silent, and it's a dark, tense one.

"What? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?" I demand. Ryan nods to Smith, carefully not meeting my eyes.

Smith moves to the bedside, takes my now-compliant other hand and cuffs it to the bedrail. "According to our records, everyone bitten becomes a psychopath. They lose their humanity somehow, can't seem to control their impulses or emotions after being bitten. Then, they kill people. Lots of people. They end up in isolation or Death Row at maximum security prisons. That's why they've been declared a threat to national security—because eventually, they're a threat to everyone around them."

He pauses and steps back. "We have to protect the hospital staff while you're here, in case you suffer a psychotic break between now and tomorrow morning and become a ravening beast. You'll be sedated right after we leave to prevent that. We'll be taking you into custody tomorrow after your fluid levels have re-stabilized and your blood pressure returns to normal."

I check the blood pressure readout on the monitor. A hundred and fifty over ninety. Way high for me. Some of it's damned-well due to the stress of learning I'm a shapeshifter... _what a nightmare!_

I'm a shapeshifter. I can't believe it. By their expressions, Ryan and Tiny certainly do. God Almighty. I start to hyperventilate. My heart thunders in my chest. Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I recognize it for what it is—my enemy. I fight it, taking long, deep breaths. Long, slow breaths. In and out. My head clears, and I look up at Smith, who's watching carefully. I turn to see Ryan staring at Smith, triumph in his eyes.

Certainty grips me. "That was a test, wasn't it?" I clamp my mouth shut on normal outrage at such sneaky, low-down manipulation.

"Yes," Ryan murmurs, squeezing my hand. "And you passed it with flying colors."

From now on, every emotion I show will be suspect, examined by my captors to see if I'm losing control. _Every_ emotion. I'll be examining them too.

The _60 Minutes_ stopwatch ticks loudly in my head. How long? How long do I have? How long before I snap? Before I attack instead of protect and serve?

I shiver in anticipated horror. But, no. It doesn't have to be like that; I categorically refuse to accept it. From the bottom of my soul, I declare it: _I will never be that. I will never, ever be a ravening beast_. _I will fight for self-sovereignty._

"She was infected less than four hours ago." Smith states. He meets Ryan's eyes steadily. "It's really too soon to tell when she might break down."

A thought occurs. "You said, 'according to our records.' How many records? How long have you been keeping them? Who is this 'our'? FBI, Homeland Security, CIA...?"

Ryan replies this time, staring back at Smith. "For only a few years, both the FBI and Homeland Security have been aware of and keeping track of the shapeshifter phenomenon. We have fifteen documented –"

"Cathcart, that's classified information." Smith snaps.

"But Special Agent Smith," I counter, my voice trembling only slightly. "As number sixteen on a classified list, I have a vested interest in this information."

"Maybe later, DJ," Ryan tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've got a lot to absorb tonight. And I have a very special errand to run. One that might shed some light on your situation."

Smith narrows his eyes at Ryan in warning. Ignoring him, Ryan leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

As usual, work takes precedence with Ryan. Normally, I'd feel the same way, but this situation is far out of the realm of normal. Can't he stay with me? He's going to leave me here all night in handcuffs after I almost died? After I learned I'm a shapeshifter—of all bizarre things? My world's completely shattered.

"Stay with me," I blurt, immediately after hating my words and pleading tone.

"I can't," he swallows. "This assignment I'm on is so huge that your becoming a shapeshifter is dwarfed by comparison. But, I'll take care of you, honey. I promise."

"How does this affect us?" I whisper. He leans in.

"It doesn't," Ryan whispers back, his eyes a bare inch from mine. In them, I see steadfastness and utter loyalty. He doesn't have to say it: we'll take it one day at a time, together.

Holding my chin, he kisses me. It's full of longing and passion and tenderness, and it nearly breaks my heart. There, in those last five seconds, is why I love this man and want to make a life with him. He's rock solid, and together, we can move the world.

I listen to their footsteps fade down the hallway. Then, I hear someone outside my door shift in a chair. A newspaper unfolds loudly. My hearing seems a whole lot better than it used to be. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

I examine the cuffs. If I'm a shapeshifter, couldn't I just change myself into a mouse and be free? There's only one problem with that. I don't know _how_ to change my shape. Just my luck. All of the problems and none of the privileges.

A nurse comes in, injects a sedative into my IV and leaves.

I indulge in mental tantrums until the sedative takes effect.

The bed creaks and settles as something light-footed but heavy lands on the mattress. Muzzily, I frown. Can't be one of my kitty boys, they're too little to do that. A great nose snuffles my ear. Scattered brain cells migrate into a cohesive whole. With one pass, a dishcloth-sized tongue rasps my cheek. A great weight settles onto me.

I open my eyes to see the amber orbs and striped face of a tiger inches away. Mind screaming _FIGHT,_ every muscle in my body locks into high gear. Before I can even blink, though, the striped face contorts, and the great body spasms, pops and creaks, resolving a few minutes later into a rat-faced man. A naked one. On top of me. And I know him.

He's a sleazy, low-life loser I put away for a nickel on a drug charge not long after I joined the force. And he's out of prison now – obviously. How time flies when slime is locked up. His long, dirty ash blond hair drapes around our faces.

"Kemp." Loathing drips. "Get your nasty, stinking junk off me." The voice coming out of me is almost a feral growl. It shocks me.

Kemp grins, breathing the stench of his poor oral health in my face. "DJ Jesseray. The sexiest lil' ol' occifer to ever plant my ass in the slammer. Hi, honey, I missed you." He leans in for a kiss, and I spit in his face. He casually wipes it away, saying, "Aw, now, darlin', don't be like that. You know I allus wanted us to get closer." He shoves his obviously appreciative groin into mine.

Gross. My face screws up in disgust. "How'd you get in here? Get off me before I start yelling and deafen you, you slime ball!"

He reaches out and gently lifts a tendril of my hair, sliding it through his fingers. "Soft as silk, jes' like I allus thought." He leans over and sniffs it. "That ol' guard out there? He's takin' a lil' nap right now, cuz I tapped 'im real light behind the ear. You learn the handiest things in the joint." His fingers leave my hair to stroke down my cheek. I yank my face away, straining my neck to get my face away from those disgusting fingers.

"Aw, darlin' now, don' be like that...." His hand wanders to my neck. "You see, you an' me? We're gonna get real close now, jes' like I allus wanted. See, I knew they'd send fer you ta rescue my sister an' her kid, bein' the cat lady an' all. I knew if I could jes' git you there, I cud bite ya, an' you'd be mine ferever." His watery gray eyes gleam ravenously as they follow his finger under the neckline of my gown. I thrash, bucking, kicking, biting – anything to escape those violating hands—stupid hand-cuffs!

I must have looked crazed because Kemp backs off in haste.

He's glaring now, the truth of his hatred finally on his face. "Reject me now, bitch, but in three days you'll purr an' rub yerself all over me like you're in heat." He grins, a very under-sized portion of his anatomy jerking in passionate anticipation as he climbs off the bed. "'Cuz, see, unless I fuck you under the full moon, yer gonna die. That's the way it is with lady shapeshifters. Get fucked by another like you at yer first full moon, or it's all over. An' I'm the only tiger in town." He giggles shrilly and waves bye-bye like a toddler, skipping backwards out the door, jiggling obscenely.

My mouth hangs open. I'm shocked to the soles of my feet for the third time in one night. And it was court day. Could a twenty-four hour period be any worse?

Little did I know that the nightmare had just begun.

## Chapter 2

After Kemp's visit, anxiety hunts me like a lion. Ironic, huh, since I'm a shapeshifter now. It's just so strange. Who would've thought? Shapeshifters exist. So, what does that imply about vampires and witches and ghosts, oh my? I close my eyes. I just can't wrap my mind around it. Me—a shapeshifter.

What will this mean to my family? I could never keep anything this big from them. We're too close. And what about my job? Would I be allowed to keep it?

I snort to myself. Not if Tiny has anything to say about it. I'll be behind bars slicker than snot, and nobody will be the wiser.

But, hey, aren't I supposed to be sedated for the safety of all humankind? I'm feeling pretty wide awake. Maybe the shapeshifter metabolism burns through drugs faster than a normal human being's. My brain's almost frenetic, bouncing from one thought to the next from nanosecond to nanosecond—a side effect of the drug/new metabolism interaction? _Focus, DJ._ I admonish myself.

I recall the scene at the apartment building. Kemp admitted it was a setup. The woman, now that I think of it, she must be related to Kemp. There was a rat-faced resemblance. And she wasn't badly hurt at all. Next, there's the whole turning me into a shapeshifter thing. There's no freakin' way that turning me was Kemp's idea. He was never that smart. But, there _was_ something different about him. Remembering the feral intensity of his eyes sends icy ants marching up my spine.

Plus I refuse to go gently into federal incarceration, first because it's a blatant violation of my civil rights. Second, I sure as hell wouldn't be doing anybody any good (especially me) sitting in a cell or being some government geek's science project.

Since when does being a potential threat to national security require arrest and incarceration? Anybody with bomb, martial arts or military training could qualify as a potential threat, couldn't they? How does 'innocent until proven guilty' figure into all this? Or am I just naïve?

And last but _so_ not least, I swore an oath to serve and protect the people in this community. Imminent danger and death for multitudes lurk under this stinking mystery. Between Kemp's uncharacteristic initiative and the FBI's stonewalling local law enforcement on the shapeshifter phenomenon, this reeks like a neglected meat grinder. If I stay cuffed to this bed, I'll never solve the mystery, and mysteries draw me like chocolate during PMS.

Raven's my near-term solution. My best friend since grade school, she lives pretty close. She's charming, brown-haired, a ton of fun and an oddly gentle spirit. Formerly known as Henrietta (I know, I'd change my name too), she's the friend who got into woo-woo New Agey stuff awhile back. One night I stopped by her house and confessed to the tingly weirdness of my tai chi experiences, and how I noticed my computer goes belly up when I'm stressed out.

She sat straight up, blue eyes shining, and crowed. "Cool! Do you feel this?" She held her hand over my arm, and I felt this prickly sensation as she moved it, hovering a bare half inch above the skin.

I said, "What _is_ that?"

"That's energy, and it moves. It's how that laying on of hands thing works, see?"

I didn't. She explained copiously, and I started to believe her...because I could feel it, too. It's some kind of energetic sense...you know. Sure. _Riii-iight_.

Anyway, she and a mentor of hers taught me how to use my energetic... thingy (yes, that's a technical term). First, it required some "hands-on-healing" training and then lots of meditation (which I suck at) and guided meditations and visualizations. I was _so_ not into it at first. I mean, I listened politely and all, but my mental eyebrows were _way_ up there. Until, that is, I saw Raven calm her wacked-out cats down during a thunderstorm. It was the cloud of calm. She taught me how to do it, and I practiced it on my cats. They always freaked out at going to the vet, and when I projected my cloud of calm, they chilled. Hmmm.

Raven is also very creative and has a set of lock picks. I desperately need out of these cuffs and a way home.

I manage to slide my arm through the cuffs enough to grasp the bedside phone and wiggle it within reach. I punch in her number, naturally, forgetting to dial nine the first time. So, I'm not in the best of moods when she picks up the phone. Neither is she.

" _What?!_ " I hear the pissiness even as I'm eeling up to put my mouth next to the receiver.

"Rave, it's me."

Obviously still not awake --"Who the hell is calling at two in the morning? Somebody better be dyin'."

"It's DJ," I hiss. "I'm in the hospital, and I need you to get me out."

"Wha--? Dorothy Josephine." (I'm named after my grandmothers—as bad as Henrietta, huh?) She's heard my mom take that tone too many times to mess up the intonation. "If you're in the hospital, woman, you'd better stay there. They don't hospitalize people for no good reason these days." She should know; she's a nurse. Woo-woo versus nurse—doesn't compute, right? But who says people have to be consistent?

"Look, it's a long story, and I promise I'll tell you everything when you get here. But, the Feds've got me handcuffed to the bed, and I don't think they're planning on letting me go."

"What?" She's fully awake now. "What did you do?"

"I was injured in the line of duty. I was being 'cat lady,' and a tiger attacked me."

"How bad is it?"

"Just a bite and some scratches."

I hear a scoffing mumble, "Just a bite...."Then louder, "And why have the Feds handcuffed you to the bed? What about Ryan? Can he do anything?"

"Ryan was here. His supervisor put the cuffs on me."

" _Shit_ , woman!"

"Tell me about it. Then, a few minutes ago, one of my former collars drops in and threatens me. There's something very weird happening, Rave. If I don't get out of here, you may never see me again."

I knew the mystery would get to her if nothing else. We both have mega-curiosity, which got us in hot water many times as kids. I still maintain that investigators aren't made, they're just really nosy kids who grew up...some. She's a diagnostic aid; I'm a detective...twin daughters of different mothers.

"Hmmm, and that would be bad because....?"She ponders teasingly.

"I'll remember that," I growl.

I hear the smile in her voice. "I'm on my way. What do I need to bring besides my lock picks?"

"A map of the city, your dousing pendulum and clothes. Room 548."

We hang up.

Incipient panic yammers. I'm not giving in to it. There's no way I'm letting anybody make me disappear—government representative or not. I don't care if it's in the interest of national security. I've always been on the up-and-up. One FBI agent's say-so isn't going to make me show my belly and bare my throat. (Great. Now I'm thinking in animal metaphors....) Why would Tiny be the authority he makes himself out to be on the subject if he and Ryan aren't in it up to their eyeballs? I'm going to track them down and see what this super hush-hush errand is all about. I'll have some answers, thank you very much. Normally, I'd be all, "Better follow procedure." I hate it, but it's necessary...to protect people's rights...most of the time. But, this is my _life_ we're talking about. Double secret mission be-damned.

Then there's Kemp's fairy tale about new female shifters needing shifter sex on the night of the first full moon to survive. Sounds like a prison wet-dream to me. I saw the lust in his eyes on day one. There ain't no freakin' way—ever. Research on the whole shapeshifter thing is in order, and I can't do it from here.

When it comes to odd, weird, out-of-the-ordinary, paranormal anything, Raven's my gal. She reads the Inquirer, for heaven's sake. Mostly for the comedic value, yeah, but...she reads it.

An open newspaper slides into sight on the floor in the doorway. A snore. Ah, the cloud of calm at work. That guard's going to get a full night's sleep at this rate. Raven tiptoes in. Her short hair's flat on one side, sticks out in a wide wing on the other—no hairbrush before she left, obviously. Her blue eyes sparkling, she grins, lays a stack of clothes on the end of the bed, and goes to work on the handcuffs.

She whispers with a wink. "Aren't you just a jailbird's dream in that hospital original?"

I snort—ladylike, I know. She gets the left bracelet open, sneaks around and starts on the other. When it's open, I grab the clothes, ram them on, and then ruck the bedding up around a couple of pillows, hoping it looks something like a body.

At the doorway, we check the guard in his blue cop uniform. He's lolled back in the straight-backed chair, mouth wide enough for a tonsillectomy. The cloud of calm at work. It's a beautiful thing.

The nurse's station is just two doors down. My door's in full view of the nurse on duty. The guard lets out a deafening snore. The nurse glances up. We duck back into the room.

Raven holds up a finger and starts to stroll casually out the door. I grab her and haul her in front of a mirror. Yep, that hairdo won't fool anybody that she's here in any professional capacity. Her eyes twinkle and instead of mashing down her wild hair, she reaches for my hospital gown and slips it on over her tee shirt and shorts.

We check out the nurse again. She's busy on the computer. Raven glides soundlessly down the corridor away from the nurse's station, turns a corner. A few minutes later, she approaches the nurse's station from the other direction.

Raven says, "Hi, I can't sleep, and I was out for a walk when I noticed an awful stink coming from room 504. When I checked, I saw the guy had vomited on himself. There's also brown stuff dripping out from under him onto the floor."

The nurse keeps a professional face, thanks her, and Raven saunters off around the nearest corner, then goes flush to the wall to watch for the nurse. The nurse mumbles to herself and takes off in the opposite direction.

Raven scampers back toward me, ripping off the hospital gown and stuffing it into a laundry hamper. The guard breathes loudly, his eyes closed. We skitter across the hall to the exit door and open it. I hold the knob cranked so it closes silently. It's hard to tiptoe down the tiled stairwell at full tilt, but we manage.

Breathless at the ground-floor level, we open the door a crack and assess the lobby. A security guard sits alertly at the front desk. Surveillance cameras bracket the door. Raven reaches over and pulls the hood of my sweatshirt up, arranging it far forward to hide my face. Puts a staying hand on my arm. Winks. Smooths her hair a bit. Strolls out the door and over to the front desk.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm a family member of someone in the ICU, and I'm staying overnight in their family room. I'm hungry, but for the life of me, I can't find any vending machines. Can you help me?" She's pleasant, polite and believable.

When the guard replies, that's my cue. Exiting the door, I walk with drooping shoulders across the lobby, eyes on the floor. Security cameras can't look under hoods.

As I reach the after-hours door, I hear Raven exclaim impatiently, "Oh, darn, I left my wallet in the car. I'll have to go get it."

I open the door and turn left, walking slowly, glance over my shoulder naturally as the door opens behind me. Raven turns right toward the parking ramp. "I'll meet you on the street in back of the parking ramp," she calls softly.

Minutes later on that street, she comes running toward me, her face alight. This is the most fun we've had together in years. We used to sneak around like this at night all the time when we were kids.

She points the way toward her car. We jog off, avoiding cones of light from the streetlamps. Running through the night is a major rush to my sharpened senses. The cool, dew-laden air feels like velvet against my skin. Newly mown grass. The canine musk of dogs warns of barking as we pass. I'm laughing from the sheer joy of it.

About a block away, there's her car. Then, I hear it. A long howl in the near distance. The hair on the back of my neck rises. _That's no dog_ , a primal instinct whispers.

"What the hell was that?" Raven's eyes rival the moon. Both of us sprint for the car. We jump in.

"This is just too weird, Deej," Raven shakes her head, spears me with a glance and adds, "Spill." She turns the key, and we race off, no headlights.

I tell her everything, the scene at the apartment house, Jordy and his assertion that they shocked me back three times, Ryan. Tiny deserves a paragraph or two by himself, accompanied by the appropriate interjections from Raven: " _Ass_ hat" "What a jerk!" and " _So_ not cool!"

My eyes are glued to the side mirror all through my recitation. Something's following. And it's nothing natural.

A few "Holy shits" and "Oh, my Gods" later, we pull onto the cement drive next to the garage behind my house. The alley security light floods the area.

Thinking paranoid thoughts, I caution, "Let me scout around before you get out, 'kay?"

"Okay."

I get out and pull in a deep nose breath. Just the usual stink of city living, now amplified: ripe garbage cans, motor oil, Round-up, exhaust fumes, compost heaps. I run up the back walk and then circle the house. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary. Returning to the backyard, I punch in my garage door code and snag the spare key and fob for my alarm system. Raven exits the car, hauls a jammed tie-dyed cloth shoulder bag out of the backseat and closes and locks the doors with a slight click. I hit the close button for the garage door and trot up the back walk, Raven behind me.

After I disarm the alarm with the fob and unlock the back door, Raven comes in, shuts and locks the door. I pull the cord to the over-the-sink light. We stare at other and then hug frantically.

"You almost died."

"Yeah, but I didn't."

"Damn it! Don't you ever do that again...."

"Okay."

We break apart and grin sheepishly at each other. As if I could help almost dying. And could promise I'd never do it again.

"Let me see the wounds."

I pull off the hoodie and show her the healed teeth marks. She circles around to my back. Sucks in a breath, traces claw marks with a finger. "Holy shit."

"Yeah. And I lived through that."

"So, it's really real."

"So they said."

Raven gets down to business. "Well, Deej, where should I set up to douse?"

I turn toward the dining room and spot the kitty boys. They're poised in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. Cody's (the black one) got his right paw raised, ready to take the next step. Petey's (the mackerel tabby) eyes are like Frisbees. I crouch and hold out my hand to them. Their noses wiggle as they sniff me. Fur slowly rises along their spines.

They scatter, back claws scraping the wood floors as they hit the corner toward my bedroom. Collar bells jangle all the way.

"My scent's changed. They don't recognize me." Tears fill my eyes. After nearly dying, finding out I'm a monster, locked in cuffs by the FBI, abandoned by my fiancé and learning that I'll die in three days if I don't screw somebody I despise, _this_ makes me cry?

As Raven puts her arms around me and murmurs comforting things, I realize this is the excuse I needed to let go. So, I let it _all_ go -- wail, sob, mop tears, and blow my nose on the paper towel Raven hands me.

"Feel better?"

"I guess." I find myself sitting on a dining room chair. Raven is seated adjacent to me at the head of the table, a city map spread out before her. A dousing crystal lies at her left hand. She pulls the shades and turns on the light as I blow one last time.

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have anything of Ryan's?" She knows I crave action when I'm stressed.

"Yeah, he left his brush here last time." I stumble off to the bathroom, avoid looking at my red swollen face in the mirror and retrieve the hairbrush.

Raven calls, "Where's your sage?"

"I'll get it." I return to the dining room, toss her the hairbrush, pull open one of the drawers on the china hutch and come up with a roll of sage and a candle lighter.

I light the sage and set the intention on cleansing the room and finding Ryan. Waft the fragrant smoke into all four corners and once around the whole room. Hand her the smoldering roll of sage, one hand carefully under the smoking tip. She smudges me. I smudge her and then scan the floor for any embers. Licking a finger, I swipe one up from the flowered area rug before it catches and then park the roll of sage in a saucer. After going through the archway into the living room, I pull all the shades and the curtains, too. Total blackout. If they discover I'm gone from the hospital, it won't look like I'm home.

In the darkened room, the feeling that something unnatural is closing in raises my shoulders around my ears. It's not here yet but getting closer. What is this feeling—some new something that came along with the shapeshifting? Everything is just too weird now. I put my head in my hands, and the trembling takes over.

"Honey," Raven croons. "C'mere." She gets up and leads me back to my chair. I scoot it over next to hers, and she holds me, rubbing my upper back. "Take it one minute at a time. Be present here with me, okay? We'll handle anything else as it comes."

I nod. _Get it together, girl. Focus on the mystery._

"Okay, let's find out where Ryan is." She picks up the chain to the dousing stone and holds it steady over the center of the map. We both hold our breaths as the dangling pointed stone slowly begins to circle. Her hand and arm remain motionless.

Eventually, the stone comes to a quivering halt over the airport. "Well, I didn't expect that." I blink. "But it makes sense, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"Tiny completely disregarded my background. He immediately started treating me like a criminal. Fear, not information, was driving him. That suggests the Feds don't know much about shapeshifters. Especially since they've only identified sixteen in the whole country. When a single deep bite infects? That doesn't make any sense. So, when an organization lacks talent or information, what do they do? They buy or hire it."

"Makes sense." Raven stretches. "I'll let you do your sleuthing. I'm going home. I've got a shift tomorrow."

We gather up her stuff, and I walk her to her car. The air is full of scent—dog-yet-not-dog—and dangerous. We exchange hugs, and I quickly put her in her car and wave her off down the alley.I retreat up the sidewalk backwards, sniffing. It's getting closer. I'm at my back door now, ready to run in if....

Claws scrape the alley's pavement. Eyes glow amber on long muzzled faces; wavy fur ripples silvery in the alley's safety light. Growls and panting echo off the houses. Huge wolves, but nothing like I've seen on _Animal Planet_. They're leaner, longer and taller than an American timber wolf with shorter ears. Even their heads are narrow, but a crocodile would envy those jaws. Long plumed tails arc over their backs. The group lines up outside my chain-link-fenced backyard gate. They snarl, ultra-menacing. It worked; I'm scared. A whining moan and a soft screech emerge from behind the bridal-wreath spirea bush. Minutes later, a tall hatchet-faced man with a naked chest stands and glowers over the bush at me. I take another sniff; these were the menacing presences I'd felt following me earlier. My heartbeat accelerates even more. Werewolves are real. _Holy. Shit._ If I'd had doubts, this definitely disproved them. My stomach drops.

"She-tiger. You are on pack territory, unauthorized. Depart or die."

Nice bad-guy speech, a little stilted but.... Hmmm, what to do? Try some honesty and cluelessness; after all, I'm honestly clueless about shapeshifters.

In my most innocent tone, I ask, "What pack? I just became a tiger tonight, and it wasn't my choice. Could you ease up on the threats a little since I'm new?" I sound pathetic there at the end. Probably because I'm feeling mighty pathetic right now.

Silence.

I continue, "Um, and just so you know, I need to be at the airport, like, yesterday? So, can this maybe wait 'til later? Do you have a cell number? I'll call you and set up a time to talk, okay? How about Starbucks sometime later this morning?"

Utterly civilized. I wonder how he'll respond. He looks a little boggled. A confused whine reaches me.

"Uh, okay. 651-555-0974."

"'Kay, thanks. I'll call you as soon as I get back. What's your name?"

"Patrick."

"Okay, Patrick, I'll call you later. I really appreciate your understanding." I carol, "Have a good night." Wave, smile brightly and duck into the house.

_Whew_. Dodged that bullet. And, I got a great piece of information. There are werewolves out there, and they're not incarcerated. Or psychotic killers. _Or_ they'd've attacked me regardless of anything I said. Solid evidence that Tiny doesn't know his ass from Fashion Week about shapeshifters. Hah! Can't wait to see the look on his supercilious, FBI-policy face when I announce that news. How I'd like to punch him right in his smug nose. I feel my shoulders rising, tense.

_Calm down, breathe, no excess emotion_ , I advise myself. _Don't lose control. Even in private like this._ It would be like opening a door I might never get shut again. Besides, my kitty kids have been traumatized enough for one night.

I retrieve my backup gun, a Colt .45 double-action compact pistol, out of the gun safe and shove it into the hoodie's pocket. Slide my feet into some tennis-shoe clogs and open the door. Take a deep sniff. The scent of werewolves is fading. I jump into my car and race off to the airport. No cell phone, darn it; I wonder if Jordy has it, my service pistol, a Browning hi-power 9mm, and bag. Hafta get in touch with him later.

All the way to the airport, I keep looking over my shoulder. No shapeshifters in cars chasing me down the road—or cops—or dark FBI SUVs. The night is black between the lights on the highway because clouds occlude the stars. I feel like I'm the only one in the world...and I'm really scared. Time for a distraction.

I wonder where Kemp is. Who're the brains behind him? Some supernatural bigwig? Do shapeshifters have them? Why turn me? There are hundreds of other cops, detectives and people with a lot more years of experience than me on the force and way more important, my captain for example. A judge. The mayor. The police chief. A city councilman. Why not a congressman or state senator? Heck, the governor lives right here in Saint Paul. Why me? I know that Kemp has a thing for me, but could that be all it took?

Ryan and Tiny only mentioned the shapeshifters in federal prison. Do they know anything about the bunch I ran into behind my house? Somehow I doubt it. From what Ryan said, this person they're picking up could maybe clue me in a little. Another reason for me to intercept them as soon as possible at the airport. I deserve some answers.

Handcuffing me to the bed, arresting me based on FBI policy? And Ryan let him. It really hurts that he'd leave me like that. And I'm confused. Why would he let Tiny do that to me? What does that say about his loyalty to me versus his job? From where I'm sitting right now, it looks like he's picking his job over me. That hurts even worse.... Again, tension rises with my hurt and fear _. Breathe, DJ, breathe. The feelings are natural, but they don't have to take over._

At the airport, I pull into the high-rise ramp and park. Time for a little reconnaissance.

I roll down the window, sniff and listen. It's really late; my car clock says it's after 3:00 a.m. Sure wish I knew where their expert was coming from, then I could check the gates. I slide out of the car and close the door with the tiniest click. Another sniff. Exhaust fumes. I trot to the next level up and start checking cars. Nothing screams FBI SUV or Ryan on that floor. I jog over to the next flight of stairs. Air wafts up the staircase. I freeze.

Ryan—his distinctive honeysuckle scent, and there's Tiny—gun oil and antiperspirant. I hear their voices, echoing down a couple of levels. I sprint down the stairs, stopping at each level to sniff. At the landing three levels below mine, I catch their fresh scents and rip open the door. Danger. Something unnatural's coming. Not shapeshifters this time. Something colder, more vicious, and evil. My gun's out, pointed downward in a two-handed grip. In a crouch, I run behind a line of cars toward their voices. As I skirt the last one, I get another odd whiff. Animal. Major predator. I recall a similar scent from Mom's exotic cat sanctuary. Almost recognize it but can't quite put a name to it.

Another scent hits me from upwind past Ryan and Tiny—sour ashes and rotten blood. Nothing I've ever smelled before. That's the evil I'd sensed. My nape hair is at full attention. A visceral certainty grips me: Ryan's in deadly danger, and he has no clue.

I pop my head around the nearest SUV. There are Ryan and Tiny escorting a tall dude. Up behind them comes a nightmare.

Six finely dressed death's heads—four GQ men's suits and two in cat suits, obviously female from the curves. But their heads—grinning gray skin-clad skulls with maws of needlelike fangs. Eye orbits pulse, glowing chartreuse. Even my worst nightmare isn't this bad.

I yell, "Behind you!" and fire past the men at the horrors. The skull-heads move like water, all grace and menace. Bullets don't even faze them. My instincts roar like a lioness protecting her territory. That's my mate out there.

I find myself pulling off my clothes as I run toward them. Why am I doing that? One part of my mind whimpers in confusion. Tiny's widening eyes are on me, along with the other dude's. Only Ryan turns to see what's coming. The tall GQ suits with long black hair grabs Ryan and plunges those teeth into his neck. I scream.

My "Ryan!" converts to a gasp at the feel of icy hands on my shoulders. I struggle, totally freaked out. Agony sears through the side of my neck. Then, everything flashes white.

I resurface looking into the bloody jaws of another death's-head creature, female by the hair. A foreign instinct drives me to crouch and leap into its face while the other part of me babbles in confusion. We topple backward onto the cement floor, smashing the back of her head into it. My head darts toward her neck. I want desperately to rip her throat out. Her skeletal hands come up to grasp my neck, trying to hold me off. The instant she touches my neck where it bit me, flames lick up her hand and arm. She shakes her arm, obviously panicked. Then she shrieks like a train whistle as fire engulfs her. She rolls over and over, trying to put out the flame. Through all this, I'm backing off, wincing at the sound and heat, totally astonished. _What the hell's happening?_

Then I remember Ryan. I whirl to see him being pulled backward by the tall skinny GQ suit. Its fangs are still in his neck. Ryan's eyes protrude in terror, and his hands claw uselessly at the thing's face, his entire body rigid. _What_ are _these things?_ The other creatures are attacking the tall dude and Tiny. Tiny fires his weapon while light glints off the other guy's...sword? _What??_

Part of my mind yammers in fear and shock as I race toward Ryan and his attacker. From somewhere near I hear enraged snarling. _Is that me?_ One of the death's heads breaks off from Tiny to jump me as I streak by. Something screeching lands on my back. I shake myself to displace it, then, flip and roll onto my back, writhing. Manage to get the thing half off. A deep bite at the clawing forearm beside me. I back off in utter disgust. Shake my head violently, blood from my open neck wound splashing the creature. _Gross_. I shake my head again, mouth wide open as the taste and stench of a slaughterhouse pond overwhelms me. Flame immediately spreads from where my blood sprayed the creature. Distantly, I hear gunfire, grunts and scuffling.

Something broadsides me. I twist and stare into another death's head's glowing eyes. This one's a female.

It hisses, "What _are_ you?" and dives for my throat.

I scramble to get away, but she latches on. That foreign instinct grips me and twists my face toward it as I lunge, snarling right onto its dirty-gray corpse-face. Then, she's screaming, showing a mouthful of fire. She backs off, running around and around, trying to elude the fire. It quickly engulfs her, and she sinks to the ground. In seconds, all that remains is a heap of ash.

By now, the rational part of me is numb with shock. Instinct, pure and focused, takes over. _Where's my mate?_

I scan the area for Ryan. Nowhere in sight. I race to the last place I saw him and sniff, picking up his scent. Chase it up and around the next curve. There, a white Mercedes SUV with its back hatch open The tall skinny creature is stuffing Ryan's horrified, bug-eyed self into the back compartment. I hear a feral roar. _Is that me?_

I leap and pounce, screaming my denial. _You can't have him!_ The creature turns calmly and backhands me across the head. Shooting stars replace my vision. I land hard on the cement, my brain rattled. I shake my head. He's slammed the back hatch and is moving around to the driver's side. I growl and dart, crouching, after him, mouth opening to tear. He whirls with incredible quickness, lashes out, landing a kick right in the middle of my chest. I'm sent rolling, end over end, stopped by a concrete pillar. He slams the car door, a mocking smile on his ghastly face in the side mirror. Shaking it off, I leap up, around and onto the hood. Rear back and pound my front paws on the windshield as other doors open and shut. The remaining creatures are on board now. Under my _paws??_ , the windshield creaks.

I hear two sets of human-slow footsteps. Tiny and the other guy. The Mercedes backs out in a rush. I wobble, extend claws to latch on, lose my balance and tumble off when the SUV spins in a tight circle and accelerates away. Like a bowling ball, I roll over and over on the cement floor from centrifugal force. Squint after the retreating vehicle, but the license plate refuses to come into focus. _What's with my eyes?_ My head's reeling, and it aches. Between the slap and the kick, that thing delivered a massive amount of power into my poor body, which then impacted cement, twice.

Suddenly, I'm exhausted. I stumble up, half-falling. A warm hand braces my shoulder. Then, everything flashes white again. I blink. The concrete is chilly beneath my naked buttocks. _Naked_? Right, for some reason I ripped off all my clothes. The parking ramp whirls around me, my entire equilibrium unseated. Pre-vomit saliva floods my mouth. I fight it down, swallowing convulsively. _Ugh, that rotten blood taste. No wonder I wanna puke._

A suit jacket settles over my shoulders. I look up to see the tall dude looking down at me, grim-faced. Over my other shoulder, I hear someone eject a clip, jam another home and rack a round. I glance behind to see Tiny level a Berretta 9mm right between my eyes. His eyes are lethal.

Whoa.

I raise shaking arms.

"Is that really necessary, Agent Smith?" The velvet baritone from over my other shoulder has a sexy English accent.

Tiny's eyes glare implacably down the gun barrel. "I just witnessed her change shape. Her infection is confirmed. According to policy, I'd be within my rights to shoot her on the spot. "

My head still spins, but I have enough sense to recognize a serious threat. "But what about my rights?" I ask. My voice is curiously hoarse. "Have I threatened you?" I have to swallow again. "Have I hurt you or him? I thought I was helping you fight those things."

Tiny's face is rock-hard. "But you're a confirmed shapeshifter, and therefore, a textbook threat to national security. Besides, you're a fugitive. Why aren't you still handcuffed to that hospital bed? I placed you under arrest."

"Fugitive from an illegal arrest, I would argue. I repeat, how have I threatened you?" I'm trying to take deep breaths, but my aching head and chest keep me panting. Adrenaline still licks through my veins. One part of me wants to leap at his throat _. You're so not helping,_ I warn it. "As a matter of fact, I think I just saved your ass."

Tiny scowls. I rise, gripping the jacket around me. He pushes the gun's muzzle into the side of my head.

"Ow! I'm just going over there to get my clothes. Not making any sudden moves. You can follow me if it makes you feel better." As the sharp ache fades in my head and chest somewhat, deep breathing also starts to help slow my racing pulse; I'm fighting a primitive impulse to bite Tiny's arm off. Successfully, thank all that's holy.

As I walk, my legs quiver, and I stagger. That warm hand clasps my shoulder again, then a long arm around my waist holds me up. Gratitude floods me, and I have to swallow hard.

"Did anyone get the plate number on that Mercedes?" I ask.

"I did," says my human crutch whose chest is very warm and solid behind me. I feel his voice's vibration as he repeats the number in that accent.

My whole body trembles as I gather my scattered clothes. Turning my back firmly, I re-don them under the jacket. I hand it back as I slip into my shoes.

Tiny keeps his gun on me the whole time, determination written in every line of his body. Turning toward him, I see a question in his eyes.

"What?" I rub my jaw. Wow, it's a wonder it's not broken.

"Weren't you bitten by a tiger?"

"Yes, why?" Same thing with my sternum. I rub it too, grimacing.

The men exchange a glance. The tall dude answers. "You transformed into a lioness."

I shrug. With all the other weird crap that just happened, to me, that's a very minor detail. "Do either of you have a cell phone?"

Tiny lowers his gun, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Whether it's because I'm acting so normal or that I hadn't torn his throat out yet (tempting though it is), I can't say. He reaches into his jacket and extracts his cell, handing it over.

I dial the squad. "Jesseray here. Could someone please run this plate for me?" I repeat the license number, looking to the dude for confirmation. He nods. Then, I reel off my badge number. Dispatch puts me on hold.

I hold out my hand to the blond guy. "DJ Jesseray."

"Tristan Dunham." We shake. His palm is very warm, dry and calloused. He has the most interesting blue eyes I've ever seen. Rays, like the ones little kids draw around their pictures of suns, shoot from his pupils in navy blue, true blue and sky blue. Gorgeous. Then I think, wait, mine are like that only in amber, whiskey and yellow. Curiosity raises its nosy head.

His shoulder-length blond hair tumbles in varying shades, its large curls tempting fingers. More lanky than brawny, he exudes a tall man's whipcord grace. He's wearing a tailored, designer navy blue suit. His face is all curves, gently rounded cheeks and chin, button up-tilted nose, and a beautifully molded mouth. Not the usual handsome man's high cheekbones and chiseled jaw, but very attractive. Especially those sparkling eyes. Dispatch yanks my unseemly attention back to business. I always was a sucker for a pretty face.

I listen as the voice on the other end reports. "Thanks. Hey, would you call my partner, Jordan Burke, and ask him to drop my stuff off at my house? Yeah, he's got my cell. Does anyone know what happened to my service piece and badge? Oh, okay. Would you ask him to drop those off, too? He knows what to do if I'm not home. Thanks." I press the end button and hand Tiny back his phone.

"Was it stolen?" he asks flatly.

"Yep, the owner reported it this afternoon."

Turning away, he curses and kicks the air.

Dunham and I contemplate each other grimly. "What exactly were those things?" I ask.

Dunham opens his mouth.

Tiny whips around and jumps between us. "That's classified information."

Swallowing a snarl, I plant a hand on my hip. "It's hardly classified to me since I axed three of them, don't you think? And isn't what I am classified, too? Looks to me like the cat's firmly out of the bag, Tiny. Pun intended."

Dunham eyes Tiny. "They're vampires, Officer Jesseray," Dunham states matter-of-factly. I'm boggled but try not to show it.

"That's Detective Jesseray, Mr. Dunham. Homicide." I supply.

His sandy eyebrows rise. "Interpol—Supernatural Unit. I'm a consultant."

I'm not considered a small woman at five nine, but he towers over me. He must be six four or five.

He turns to Tiny whom he overtops by an inch or so. "You're not working with local law enforcement on this, Agent Smith?"

"Supernatural creature numbers are so small that we've kept the news under wraps. The government doesn't want to alarm the general public."

Dunham's eyebrows meet his hairline. "How many shapeshifters are you aware of?"

"We have sixteen reported cases, Mr. Dunham. Fifteen of them are in federal prison."

"Fifteen? In a country this size?" Dunham's eyes nearly pop from his head.

Tiny presents his stone face.

"I met several tonight who aren't in federal custody," I mention off-handedly. I've been waiting for just this chance. Another part of my mind is making confused and panicked noises about Ryan and my shifting into a lioness.

Tiny gapes unattractively. Beady eyes don't bulge well.

I smother a grin. "Werewolves, in fact. A pack came patrolling through my neighborhood. I even saw one transform behind my house. I'm meeting them in a few hours at Starbucks." No need to mention that they threatened my life.

Dunham observes the color rising on Tiny's face and my poorly suppressed mirth.

"I'd be willing to share my lead, guys, if Tiny can refrain from putting me and those werewolves behind bars. Seeing as how I'm not a psychotic killer or anything." I can't stop myself from jabbing at him a little. Tiny's lips tighten. "My werewolf contacts may have information about where the Twin Cities vampires hang out."

Tiny looks away, clears his throat.

Gathering steam, I eye Tiny with disfavor. "In your eagerness to prevent me from being a menace to national security, you may not have noticed, but those vampires took my fiancé. _Your_ partner. I don't know how it works with the Feds, but if _my_ partner was missing, _I'd_ be moving heaven and earth to find him."

"Yes," Dunham chimes in, "it's especially critical that we find him within three days, or they'll turn him. Then, they'll have access to not only all the information that the FBI has on the supernatural community but also everything he knows about the FBI."

Tiny swallows. Is that guilt I see flash across his face?

## Chapter 3

Supervising Special Agent Smith follows me back to my house. Tailgates me, in fact. Whatever. Yes, I'm a menace to society Mental eye-roll. I brake suddenly a couple of times just to give him the hint that he's a bit too close. Very mature, I know.

I turned into a lioness. Me. A lion. In a flash of white light. Bled on vampires and set them on fire. My head is frankly swimming. How can any of this be real? I feel like I've fallen onto the set of a _SiFi_ channel original movie. But I have to accept it; this is real. It happened—to _me_. I became a lion and bit a vampire. My blood set them on fire and burned them to ash. The taste of vampire flesh, the vampires' ash and rotted blood scent sits, a visceral presence, in my nose and mouth. Foul, fetid, stinking corruption—the utter antithesis of life. And it's got my Ryan. I'll use every weapon in my new shapeshifter arsenal to find and rescue him from their cold hands. That, at least, is one benefit of my new state. I get to turn into a big vicious predator and go after monstrous evil. How cool is that?

But that vamp was mega-strong; wow. I rub my aching chest.

When we get to my house, I unlock and usher Tiny and Dunham in through the front porch. I open a spare covered tote I keep there for drop-offs when I'm not home. Whew! Jordy's been there. I have my cell back along with my badge and service piece, a Browning hi-power 9mm. I felt naked without 'em, you know?

Anxiety stalks my every step with Tiny eyeing me like he's out to plug me any minute. Fear for Ryan keeps my pulse elevated. I need action. Motioning Tiny and Dunham into seats in the living room, I go through the dining room into the kitchen to fire up my Keurig. Tea for Dunham, of course, as an Englishman. I ask him his preference and get things going. Then, I dial Patrick, turning my back so Tiny can't hear the details.

Patrick picks up on the third ring.

"Donovan here."

"It's DJ Jessaray. You know, the new tiger in Saint Paul?"

"Thanks for calling back."

"Sure. Hey, listen, I have a slight problem. I really want to meet with you, but I'd really prefer a meeting with your leader. See, we seem to have a little supernatural problem here in the Twin Cities."

His voice is cautious. "What do you mean?"

"My fiancé, an FBI agent, was kidnapped by vampires about an hour ago."

He lets out a percussive breath. "Definitely above my pay grade. I'll bump it up a level."

"Thanks. And the sooner, the better, you know? Three days, and he's one of them, I guess."

"Tough luck. I'll see what I can do." We end the call.

To keep my worries about Ryan at bay, I assemble a tray. Cream, sugar, lemon slices, blueberry scones (made from scratch, natch.) A blob of lemon curd, butter, some fresh berries and a communal bowl of vanilla yogurt. Protein, carbs, fat, and some fruit. Should do us all some good. Dunham's English Breakfast tea finishes brewing. I put it on the tray and haul everything to the living room. No sign of the kitty kids. I can almost hear their kitty brains: 'Intruder alert!' They're probably in the basement in a favored hideout.

I return to the kitchen, grind some coffee beans, and brew Tiny a cup of decaf. Yeah, the man needs to be de-caffed. I probably should be too, or I'll be freaking out worse than I am. I'm showing no sign, of course – no emotions, bland affect. Tiny's cranked up enough as it is: whites of his eyes showing, sweating freely as he re-enters from the front porch. I don't need to eat breakfast with a gun to my head, thank you. Bad for the digestion. Thank goodness, I've got some years of experience with cop face. But inside, I'm totally terrified for Ryan and still reeling from my first change. The picture of his stunned face and agonized form in the arms of that nightmare keeps replaying on my mind's screen. I feel tension sink its talons in again and take deep breaths to dispel it. I broadcast at Ryan: _Hang on, baby, I'm comin'!_

Tiny's no doubt been updating his superiors. He pockets his cell as I hand him a cup. Dunham's scrolling through his phone, obviously checking messages. I brew my jasmine tea (green tea and caffeinated, I know, but the aroma's so soothing) and join them in the living room.

Tiny lifts his cup to his lips and sips. Nods his appreciation to me. I take that as a good sign.

"Thank you, Detective, for your hospitality," Dunham murmurs, buttering a scone. "Almost like home." He regards me with friendly eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. Dunham."

"Would you mind terribly repeating the story of the shapeshifter attack on you?" Dunham's eyes are sympathetic.

I comply, including the visit from Kemp at the hospital. Tiny sits up, eyes wide as I inform them of Kemp's proposed full-moon hook-up. Tiny looks to Dunham, eyebrows arched in question.

Dunham grimaces. "Unfortunately, it's true." I puff a breath up through my bangs over a suddenly moist forehead. "The next full moon is in three days." Dunham continues.

"Oh, good. No pressure." I grouse, but my eyes are glued to Dunham. Why would he have such detailed knowledge of the moon's phases unless it mattered to him personally? He meets my eyes and shakes his head minutely. I sniff unobtrusively; that predator's smell at the airport—that was _him_.

Tiny's lost in thought. I'm not even sure he heard Dunham's last comment.

Tiny clears his throat. "My superiors have instructed me to bring you into the nearest field office ASAP, detective."

My eyes are shooting daggers, and I'm about to deliver a verbal one when my cell rings. "Jesseray."

"Detective. I understand you're AMA." That's "released against medical advice" in hospital-speak as spoken by Lieutenant Kennedy, my boss. He's a no BS kind of guy. I've always liked that about him.

"Yes, Lieutenant. But the Feds think I'm AWOL." Tiny shoots his own daggers at me.

Silence. "The Feds are involved in this now?"

"Yes, in fact, they handcuffed me to my hospital bed last night."

"And yet, you're not in that hospital bed now, according to the nursing staff." Amusement laces his next comment. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, sir, when I'm threatened with incarceration without due process, without being informed of the specific charges, and without Miranda rights, I get a bit skittish." Tiny's making cut-off motions. Damned if I will. I need my brass behind me.

Kennedy is quiet. "Really?" His tone, flat.

"Really." I rise to leave the room, beginning to explain about the shapeshifting thing. Tiny lunges at me from the couch. I glide away. He hurdles the coffee table after me.

"Yes, sir. I have Supervising Special Agent Smith in my living room right now along with a supernatural expert from Interpol." I evade Tiny's grab for my phone. The move causes my voice to warble.

"Is that a fact?" Kennedy drawls in his slightly nasal baritone. "Put him on the phone."

"My supervisor wants a moment of your time, Agent Smith." Tiny grimaces, holding out his hand.

I hold up one finger to him as I'm sidling away. Dunham's watching, bemused. "Just a minute, Lieutenant." I bolt into the bathroom and lock the door. I hear Tiny rebound off it as he yells aspersions on my character.

"Sir, before I turn the phone over to him, I want to go on record with what happened last night." I tell the whole story: werewolves, vampires, my being a shapeshifter now and the cause. I'm talking faster than a radio announcer doing a disclaimer. Tiny is hollering outside the door, then pounding on it, and then applying his shoulder. As he kicks in the door, I finish, speaking loudly over the crash. Kennedy's hearing all this, of course.

I get up from the closed toilet seat. Tiny's face is red, eyes blazing as he muscles through the splinters. " _Now_ you can talk to him, Agent Smith. This is Lieutenant Kennedy, MSP PD, Homicide." I hear the call waiting tone, check the display. Don't recognize the number.

"Another call coming in," I inform them both. "This could be the pack leader. Here's Lieutenant Kennedy's cell number, Agent," I tell Tiny's rigid face. "He'll call you right back, sir."

Kennedy growls, "I can't wait to hear this" and clicks off.

I press the button to connect to the new call as I squeeze past Tiny through my itsy-bitsy bathroom. His body trembles with rage. "Jesseray."

"This is John Ramsey, Twin Cities pack leader. Patrick Donovan, our St. Paul liaison, tells me you're new to us and in a situation." His voice, a resonant bass, instantly sends relief cascading through me.

"Yes, sir. In the hospital after the attack last night, the Feds handcuffed me to the bed." I explain the events again as I exit the hall into the dining room; Tiny makes another grab for my phone. I duck, shrugging him off. I neglect to mention to Ramsey that I'm a detective with MSP PD.

Dunham sits quietly in the recliner, eating yogurt and berries. His eyes are warm and interested as he listens to me. Tiny, behind me, rumbles into his own phone, obviously not talking to Kennedy but to his FBI superior.

I explain to Ramsey about the vampires and Ryan's kidnapping. Ramsey is silent for a long moment.

"Ms. Jesseray, you've landed yourself in one helluva mess."

"Tell me about it. I also have an FBI Supervising Special Agent in my dining room along with an Interpol supernatural expert. The FBI agent has orders to take me to their local field office immediately. "

"How _utterly_ delightful." He's sarcastic.

"Isn't it." I concur drily. "I'd really appreciate your advice."

Ramsey sighs. "The pack has done its level best to stay off the Bureau's radar, but I can see that's over." He's rueful; then, he pauses. "I wouldn't mind meeting that Interpol consultant, myself. I also have some information on the local vampire nests—their locations and amount of activity around them. We keep track of them as a matter of self-defense."

"That's wonderful news." I'm jazzed.

"Patrick tells me you like Starbucks," Ramsey's tone is light.

I grin. "Yes sir."

"Where do you live?" I tell him I'm in the Midway area.

"That's very fortunate. I'm in Highland. Why don't you and your guests meet Patrick and me at the Starbucks on the corner of Selby and Snelling at 6:30?"

"I'll do my best to convince them to come."

Ramsey hesitates, thinking. "Tell the supervising special agent that a lawyer will be present. Would you like legal representation, Ms. Jesseray?"

I'm smiling. "Why, yes, sir, I'd love to retain a lawyer's services." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiny's head jerk up. He swears into his phone.

Legs crossed at the ankle, Dunham sips his tea, his eyes dancing as they switch between Tiny and me. I'll bet we're terrific entertainment.

"Why don't you give me your particulars, just to make sure they can't make you disappear into federal custody?" Ramsey suggests.

What an inspired idea. I definitely have the right man on the phone. I reel off my address and Social Security number, my parents' names, address and phone numbers. Tiny is fuming, still muttering into his phone. I can't help grinning.

"Excellent." Ramsey adds with glee, "Be sure to tell the FBI agent that if you aren't at Starbucks, I'll simply leave and file suit immediately on your behalf. I'll see you at Starbucks in about an hour."

"Will do." I end the call.

Dunham puts down his cup as I seat myself and return to my interrupted breakfast. "You're a very resourceful woman, Detective."

Butter, lemon curd, blueberry scone. Yum, I'm in heaven for a moment. "Thank you, Mr. Dunham. I've always hated being bullied."

He regards me thoughtfully. "You've experienced that?" He seems surprised. Didn't take him long to get my number.

I _do_ project a pretty tough vibe. Not surprising, I guess—between my brothers and the job; at home, it was simple sibling survival.

"I'm the youngest of four with three older brothers. At my house, it was 'get tough or die,' as it says in the old Johnny Cash song. But, my dad was really good at teaching me how to protect myself."

His eyebrows rise, encouraging me to continue.

"He's been the sheriff of Itasca County now for...years." I grin. "I guess I'm a chip off the old block. And he's the local tae kwon do instructor, many times black belt."

Dunham nods approvingly.

"Tell me about your job, Mr. Dunham." I request, dishing up my own bowl of berries and yogurt.

He studies me before he begins. "I and a group of other consultants are called the Supernatural Unit. We're loosely aligned with Interpol. They provide us with their credentials and resources, and I provide them with my services and insights. Currently, I've been retained by your FBI as a consultant. Privately, I'm concerned about their position on shapeshifters. Interpol has a far different policy, a 'live and let live' approach, I think you Yanks might say. I'm not sure I'd have agreed to the contract if I'd known the FBI's views." He eyes me meaningfully.

Okay, he can't go against their wishes, but he doesn't approve of their methods. "On what specifically?"

"On their beliefs and policies about shapeshifters."

Just then Tiny hangs up and stomps back into the living room. "Detective Jesseray, your recent actions have not been helpful to this situation."

I muse, a theatrical finger to the side of my chin. "To you and the Bureau, maybe. Considering that my actions have kept me free until now, I don't think I really care."

Tiny glares. "I'm to escort you, as previously planned, to the local field office."

"Have you spoken with Lieutenant Kennedy?"

Tiny seats himself in the chair opposite mine "No, my superiors are handling the MSP PD inconvenience."

I feel my head jolt backward. "Is _that_ what the Bureau thinks of local law enforcement? Nii-iice." I give him my best 'Ew, centipede on the wall' look. "They'll tell him I've had a psychotic break, that I'm delusional and that you're taking me into protective custody."

Tiny narrows his eyes at me. "It's the truth."

I set my bowl down and cross my arms, turning to the supernatural consultant. "Do I seem psychotic and sound delusional to you, Mr. Dunham?"

Tiny locks his gaze on Dunham, who inhales deeply. "Speaking as an expert on the supernatural, you seem completely rational to me, detective, especially for the newly turned." Tiny glares at him this time. Dunham shrugs. "She asked for my professional opinion, Agent. As you haven't, which I find curious and troubling. My role isn't to support or defend your organization's policies. As I recall, our contract defines my role very clearly—that of advisor and consultant. And as your advisor, I strongly recommend that you cease and desist persecuting this woman simply because of what she is. An agent's life is at stake. How does your organization weigh that against an ill-informed policy?"

Tiny holds out both hands. "I have to comply with current policy and procedure."

I'm incredulous. "To the extent that you'll ignore a potential lead for finding Ryan?"

Tiny sits back and crosses his arms. "I have my orders."

"Those orders may have been issued without sufficient information," Dunham points out. "Detective, what did the pack leader tell you?"

"He has information on the vampires' nest locations." Tiny and Dunham both lean forward as I continue. "He's also bringing a lawyer to the meeting. If I'm not there at six thirty, he said the lawyer will file suit on my behalf this morning." Tiny curses. Dunham sits back calmly, eyes approving.

Tiny sighs. "I see I'm out-maneuvered. Again. Jesseray, off the record, you're a complete pain in my ass."

"Just one of my many fine qualities." I smirk. He shakes his head, stands and pulls out his cell phone. He exits through the front door, closing it behind him. Dunham hides a small smile behind Tiny's back.

I check the clock. "We have some time before we have to be at Starbucks. It's about five minutes from here. I'm going to clean up and change. Can I get you anything?"

Dunham asks about internet service as he pulls a Tablet from his briefcase. I give him my WiFi key phrase and leave him to it.

I find a hammer and tack a sheet over my bathroom doorway. Collect a suit and other necessities and get in the shower. That S-o-B Tiny owes me a new bathroom door. What a caveman. He has to break down my freakin' bathroom door just to keep me from talking to my superior? So much for inter-agency cooperation. And full disclosure. My boss had no clue that shapeshifters and vampires really exist.

After showering, I flip on the exhaust fan, blow my hair dry and apply full makeup, including foundation and lipstick; the day will require full war paint. Through all this, at the back of my mind, a frantic little voice chatters, _Ryan,ryan,ryan_ and _I'm a freakin' shapeshifter now!_ I breathe deeply, soothing the little voice, _We're going to get some answers soon_.

Focusing solely on the tasks at hand, I take another deep breath. Brush and twist my hair into a chignon. Psychotic and delusional, am I? No one will doubt my professionalism, which also translates into emotional control. The bronze pants suit sets off my eyes and brings out the gold in my dark brown hair. The cream cami and chunky amber necklace and earrings add just the right contrast.

My cell rings. "Jesseray."

It's Lieutenant. Kennedy. "Detective, I'm very concerned about what I'm hearing."

"I understand, sir." My voice is utterly calm. "I assure you that I'm in full control of my faculties. The Interpol consultant concurs that I am neither delusional nor psychotic. The FBI seems to be working very hard to keep the supernatural community completely hushed up. And on getting me into custody. "

"I have only your word on that." Kennedy sounds chagrinned. "I've always backed you up before, but...."

I sigh. "Besides what you've heard from the Feds, I imagine you're getting some pressure from higher up." He's quiet. "And you probably can't confirm or deny that." He's still quiet. "Look, I'm headed to a meeting with the local pack leader in a few minutes. He says he has information about the vampires who kidnapped my fiancé, Ryan. He also has a lawyer for me."

Kennedy's relieved sigh reassures me. He's definitely being squeezed, but he's still batting for my team. I heave my own relieved sigh. "Sir, I'm coming in after the meeting. I'm going to ask my lawyer to come with. Would request that Agent Smith's superiors meet with us? How about 8:00?"

"I will. What a cluster—" Kennedy cuts himself off.

"Yeah." I sigh. "Sir, I really appreciate your keeping an open mind about my state of mind."

"Certainly, detective. You're one of my best." I hear stubble rasp. He's rubbing his jaw like he does when things get rough. Wow, my hearing has _really_ gotten sharper. "And if what you're telling me is true, you've opened an unprecedented can of worms."

"Sir, I'd swear to it on a stack of Bibles."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He blows out a breath on a curse. "I'll see you at the station at 8:00." We disconnect.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. This is getting way messy. Should I call my union rep? Nope. Better to keep it within the chain of command for now. I wonder how the higher ups are reacting to the news of a supernatural community within our midst...if they didn't know about it already. Interesting thought.

"Detective." It's Dunham outside the bathroom door.

"Coming out." I pull aside the sheet and step into the hallway. His eyes widen. After my first shapeshift complete with flop sweat and a major battle, running around in tennis-shoe clogs and sweats—a suit with full makeup _would_ be a complete makeover.

"Do I look sane and professional?"

"Without doubt." He assures, his eyes admiring. "I'll be with you momentarily." He ducks under the sheet, and I leave him to his privacy. Out in the dining room, I buckle on my belt, clip on the holster, insert the Browning, slip on my badge, and put the jacket back on. I find the ankle holster for my Colt compact, strap it on, recover the Colt from my hoodie, and shoulder my bag.

Tiny enters from the porch, grim-faced. He's been out there since before I hit the shower? Wow, the FBI's been burning up the air waves.

He eyes my new look. "You clean up decent, detective."

"Bringing all the guns to bear, Agent. This is war, after all."

He meets my eyes evenly. "It doesn't have to be."

"It is until the threat to my freedom is over."

He nods in acknowledgement.

"Do you blame me?" I ask, curious to see if he'll answer honestly.

He considers me thoughtfully. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"I understand. Would you mind driving?"

"Not at all." How civilized we are after all the verbal and physical wrestling. It's almost comical.

He scrutinizes my couch intently. "I've been informed that we're meeting at your precinct after Starbucks."

I examine him. From what little I know of him, he looks disturbed. "Glad to hear that the Bureau is willing to meet me there rather than march me off in handcuffs."

"Don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, they're not. That's why my lawyer will be there."

Smith grimaces and turns away.

Dunham joins us, and we adjourn to the car.

The short ride to Starbucks is silent. I'd give a lot to hear each of their thoughts. Well, maybe. At least not Tiny's. I confess to being intrigued by Dunham. I'd really like to peek behind that curtain. All of this runs in counterpoint to my hindbrain, which is still yammering, _Ryan,ryan,ryan_ , _I'mashapeshifter._ I continue to breathe deeply, spreading calm over the little yammerer.

Tiny maneuvers the big black SUV into an open space in front of Starbucks. We exit, and Dunham opens the shop's door for me. Nice manners....

I spot Patrick right away by his close-cropped dark hair and hatchet face. He's fortyish and in an off-the-rack, conservative suit. The guy next to him—must be Ramsey, the pack leader—is in a gray silk tailored suit, red power tie, and a monogrammed starched white shirt with cufflinks. His eyes light on me, and he rises. Big man in his fifties. He's not as tall as Dunham, but he's brawnier even than Tiny. Wavy gunmetal gray hair, dark green eyes, grizzled close-trimmed van dyke. I stride over, hand outstretched. He's got a firm but not intimidating hand shake.

"DJ Jesseray." I release his hand and shake Patrick's. I mouth _Thank you_ to Patrick, who nods. The men exchange handshakes and names. Patrick introduces himself by first name only, saying he's the pack leader—obviously, Patrick's protecting his leader, Ramsey's, pack role. I'll keep their secrets; they're risking a helluva lot to help me out.

"What's everyone drinking?" I ask brightly as Tiny and Dunham pull over chairs from other tables, chair legs scraping on the brick floor. I collect the orders and move toward the barista.

"Let me help you with that, Ms. Jesseray," Ramsey offers, following me to the dark laminate counter with its glassed-in pastry case.

We place the orders, Ramsey pays the bill, and we stand next to the condiment station to wait.

"Mr. Ramsey, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your time and support. I'm in a really tight spot. After this, the police and the Feds are meeting to determine my fate."

"The police?" His green eyes are sharp as lasers.

I nod. "There's something else I need to tell you."

He cocks an inquiring eyebrow.

"I'm a homicide detective."

"Which is why the police are involved."

"Yes, sir. My supervisor was unaware that there's a supernatural community, so he only knows what the FBI has told him. They've been telling him I'm psychotic and delusional."

Ramsey's eyes crinkle. "Good to know our silence and secrecy policy has paid off. But that's over now." He pauses and surveys me. "You look and present yourself as very sane and calm. That's quite an achievement for the newly turned."

I smile. "Thank you. Sane and calm—that's the goal."

"Now that I think of it, I've read about you in the paper, haven't I? You've got quite a track record. That will make my job easier." His eyes squint as he considers. "I may need to lean on my ACLU background during the upcoming brawl. But, it sounds like a lot of fun."

We exchange grins. "I'm glad you're on my side."

"Patrick and I will need to make a couple of phone calls, but we'll go to the meeting to back you up."

I clasp my hands to my cheek melodramatically. "My heroes...." He throws back his head and laughs, a great booming. Our order comes up, and we head back to the table where Dunham and Patrick chat away while Tiny sits leaning back, arms crossed.

Dunham nods his thanks and sets his tea aside to steep. "Patrick was just telling us that the Twin Cities shifters have quite a history, hierarchy and a well-established operation." Tiny scowls. Dunham's face is bland, but his eyes twinkle.

"There's stability in order and discipline," Patrick avers in his flat voice. "Which is essential to shifters. We exist under the radar of the unturned simply because we respect their need for safety and peace—and ours. To ensure that, we teach meditation to the newly turned as well as all our children who attend our private schools. The newly turned each have a sponsor for the first two years."

Tiny listens, still frowning, but his muscles slowly relax.

I chirp, "I already meditate." Tiny cuts a jaundiced look at me.

"I do, too," Patrick supplies. "Every day." Tiny eyes him with equal disfavor. Nice to know it's not just me.

Ramsey clears his throat. "Patrick is going only by his first name today to protect his privacy. Patrick, why don't you tell them some of your history with the pack?"

"I was turned in the mountains of Montana about twenty years ago when I was on a hiking trip. I lived here at the time and made contact afterward with the pack similar to how we contacted Ms. Jesseray early this morning. Someone on patrol ran across me, recognized by scent what I was and conscripted me into the pack."

Tiny sits forward. "Conscripted?"

"Yes," Patrick sips his coffee. "We give newly turned shifters no choice. They have to join the pack or leave."

I quirk an eyebrow at him and mouth, _Depart or die?_ He rolls his eyes in self-deprecation; he had been feeling a bit dramatic in my backyard earlier, obviously, quite at odds with his calm demeanor. "We don't allow newly turned unsupervised shapeshifters in our cities. Especially the more exotic species that don't occur naturally on this continent: tigers, lions, jaguars, leopards, cheetahs, African wild dogs, dingoes. All outside shifters must approach the pack leader for permission to enter and stay in the city. The newly turned must remain under direct supervision until they can prove they have complete control of themselves when in their second form and under duress." I wonder if they've sniffed out Kemp yet. I'll have to ask Ramsey about him later.

I catch Dunham raising his eyebrows to Ramsey, who nods slightly. It's that easy, huh?

"So, Agent Smith, as you can see, there are shapeshifters in this city who are not serial killers or authors of violence and mayhem. I am only one of many. There are over seventy in the Twin Cities area alone. Most have mates and children, own or rent homes, pay taxes, belong to spiritual congregations, hold down jobs and are upstanding members of the community. There is no need to incarcerate Ms. Jesseray. We will assign her a sponsor and monitor her development and comportment."

Tiny assesses Patrick. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an accountant, a CPA. I've worked for a major local employer for fifteen years. It gets very stressful at tax time, and I haven't killed anyone yet, or even spoken an angry word. I've never broken a law and have never even gotten a parking ticket. "

Tiny studies Patrick's phlegmatic exterior. "You shift into a wolf, correct?"

Patrick nods.

"Only one other form?"

Patrick nods again.

"Ms. Jesseray was bitten by a tiger, but I witnessed her first transformation this morning. She shifted into a lioness."

Patrick and Ramsey's eyes bore into me.

Dunham puts his hands on the table. "Ms. Jesseray's is a very unusual case. She is a 'blessed shapeshifter' who's probably been exposed to more than one species' saliva, blood or claws. Because of that, she will be able to shift into more forms than the tiger that turned her. I know that she is a blessed shifter because she transformed instantaneously through a white light, rather than through actual movement of bones, muscles, tendons and ligaments. Let me state this clearly and unequivocally: this does not mean that she's more at risk to lose control of herself than any other shapeshifter."

Dunham turns to me. "What were you thinking right before you shifted?"

I cudgel my memory. "I was thinking I felt like a lioness protecting her territory."

Dunham nods. "That explains it. Have you ever been bitten or scratched by a lion?"

"Oh, yes." I explain about my mom's cat sanctuary and captive breeding program. I think back through the array of wild animals I've handled over the years as I helped my mom. Are there any of the big cats I _haven't_ been bitten or scratched by? Can't think of any, except for a few of the smaller and rarer African and South American varieties.

Dunham smiles, eyes gleaming. I wonder what that's about...?

Next, he asks, "Do you have any psychic gifts?"

The other men stare at me. I'm squirming in my chair before I realize it. I'm _so_ not comfortable talking about this. Haltingly, I explain about my nose and the energy sensing and projecting that I do.

Dunham beams. "A very little-known fact about shapeshifters is that if, as unturned humans they have psychic abilities, that ensures they will have unusual additional gifts as shapeshifters." Dunham looks pointedly at Tiny. "This does not mean, Agent Smith, that she will have less control over her alternate forms. In point of fact, it makes her a more valuable ally for law enforcement on both the local and national levels."

Tiny shoots him an annoyed look. That's the second time Dunham emphasized the control thing. I think Tiny's getting the point—a little too pointedly and a little too often from his standpoint. I stifle a chuckle at all my mental 'pointing.' I may be getting a little punchy because of all the weirdness and lack of sleep.

Ramsey adds, "This also underscores that Ms. Jesseray does not belong behind bars. In fact, she may be a great aid to national security with her new powers."

Tiny shrugs. "It's not my call. You'll have to convince my superiors, not just here but at the highest levels in the land." Everyone takes this in. Neither Patrick nor Ramsey turn a hair.

"Now, how about we talk about where the vampires hole up?" I ask.

Patrick meets my eyes, his a solid, trustworthy brown. "Our nearest Saint Paul pack patrol identified three places where vampires' scent is fresh and unmistakable. Interestingly enough, one's two blocks from the governor's mansion."

I feel my eyebrows near my hairline. "Thank you so much, Patrick." I wonder if scent is probable cause for a warrant...? If it's that close to the governor's home, it might just be.

Patrick adds, "I haven't had the chance to call our Minneapolis pack mates or check in with a few other Saint Paul patrols. There may be more nests I'm not aware of. I'll call on our way to the police station. Then I'll email the addresses to you."

I check the time on my cell. It's past 7:45. "We need to go to that meeting at my station house. It's very close, on the west side of the Hamline just north of Marshall. You can follow us if you'd like." Patrick nods. He and Ramsey both have phones to their ears as we exit the coffee shop.

As the door closes behind us, Dunham lays a restraining hand on my arm. "When you bled on those vampires and they burned up?" I nod. "I know of no other shapeshifter whose blood does that." My eyes widen. His are deadly serious.

"American vampires, once they know about this ability of yours, will target you...and perhaps your family and friends to get to you. Do others in your family have psychic gifts?" I feel my eyes getting bigger and bigger. I nod. "They may have the same potential as you, if turned, which puts them in danger because the vampires won't want more like you opposing them. Later, I'll lay out what you and they need to do to protect themselves, their families and their homes."

I swallow hard as I climb into the black SUV's back seat. The trip to the squad is as silent as the one to Starbucks.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I feel my shoulders rising up around my ears. Not only is Ryan in deadly danger, but my family, too? Anxiety rises like a tidal wave. What can I do except inform them? Then I realize. There's not a damned thing I _can_ do. I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I certainly can't cure myself of this shapeshifting thing. I take deep breaths, in through the nose, out as quietly as possible through the mouth. I'll gather as much information as I can from Dunham and pass it along to my family.

I owe my Mom and Dad a long phone call...and the whole truth. Thank God, neither of them is the reactionary type. But, I have a sister-in-law who gives drama a whole new meaning. Can't wait to hear her reaction to the news.

Then, there's my twelve-year-old niece Ashley who's in the Twin Cities at a theater camp on a local college campus. Should I call my brother Matt (her dad), get him to pull her out and take her home? I bite my lip. She's talked about nothing but this camp for the past year.

I recall the trip home to Grand Rapids just last month. While I was there, Ashley and I'd gone for a long hike together in Chippewa National Forest. How I love the fresh air up there, the tall pines, the closeness to nature—and, of course, it's home. At lunch during our hike, Ashley gushed about how excited she was. Her best friend Brandy and she signed up, auditioned in March and got accepted to this prestigious camp. The kid ate, slept, and breathed musical theater. She's the original Gleek.

She's also almost a dead ringer for me in the looks department, much to her mother's disgust. Her mom, Tina—all blond petiteness, perfection and utter correctness—can barely and rarely stand her more rough and tumble in-laws. And she doesn't bother to restrain herself when she thinks we're behaving incorrectly. Then, she gets offended when we laugh at her or ignore her rudeness. The woman takes herself _way_ too seriously. Sometimes I wonder what Matt sees in her. Matt lives in Grand Rapids and owns and runs the local hardware store. Chris, my middle brother, is a computer technogeek in Denver. Justin, who's just a year older than me, is a lawyer. He and his wife live in Chicago.

My three brothers and I were a bunch of country kids who ran wild through our parents' acreage, playing and laughing outside in all weathers. We all had chores to do inside and out: helping clean and prepare the food for the exotic cats, working with the domestic rabbits and fowl we kept. Planting, weeding and harvesting an enormous garden. Shoveling and blowing snow in the winter, building snow forts and having epic snowball fights. So, we never went hungry and always went to bed tired. We grew up healthy, strong, sun-kissed, and involved in our community and with my mom's exotic animal sanctuary.

We're all passionate advocates of every kind of wildlife as a result. I'd taken Ashley to the Raptor Center at the University of Minnesota's Saint Paul campus just the day before yesterday, in fact, before I dropped her off at the Saint Catherine's campus where her theater camp was. I'd just been home the weekend before to pick up Ashley, which is one reason family is on my mind right now. Her face was enraptured, as she watched the snowy owl being exercised to prepare for its return to the wild. She stood in wonder as the guide lectured about the osprey that was tethered in a main room there. It was such a privilege to be there with her, seeing her experience that. She's not only my niece, but also, we'll be friends for life. She's my girl.

Should I call Matt? For her protection? I'd hate to be the one to ruin her summer. _But_. I hesitate. It might be too soon to act. Indecision gnaws at me.

Then, I remind myself to be grateful. An inner snort mocks that. No, I'm so _not_ grateful I was attacked and turned into a shapeshifter against my will. I'm _so_ not grateful that Ryan is in those things' clutches. I'm not thrilled to have Tiny holding mental guns on me every minute. _So_ not excited at the potential for my family to be in danger because of me.

I _am_ grateful that Dunham is here. I'm grateful that Ramsey, the Twin Cities' pack leader _and_ a lawyer, is going to this meeting with me _._ I'm _so_ grateful that Patrick is willing to risk his anonymity by coming out as a shapeshifter to my superiors and the FBI. I'm grateful for my boss's backing, especially when the stories he's hearing about me are sounding really bad. And, I've ever so grateful for my wonderful family.

All I can do now is pray, which is what I do the rest of the way—especially for Ryan.

Still, I feel like I'm a dead woman walking.

## Chapter 4

Jordy, my partner, stands inside the door as I enter the building. His auburn hair is mussed, light blue eyes bloodshot.

"Hey, Jordy," I assume my perkiest expression, complete with smile. He grabs me in a hug.

"Don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, Jess," he growls in my ear. "I can tell you've been up all night. And that you're worried." We step back from each other.

"Backatcha," I sass back with my best smirk and twinkle. "Did you hear about Ryan?"

Jordy shakes his head.

"He was kidnapped right in front of me on his double-secret hush-hush assignment."

Jordy has the grace to look abashed. "I'm really sorry about that, Jess. No wonder you're worried sick."

My throat is suddenly thick, and I choke a bit. "Yeah."

Jordy notices Tiny and Dunham behind me. "I'll show you up to the conference room." Patrick and Ramsey open the outside door then. "This way to the elevator." He murmurs in my ear, "Boss wants to see you in his office beforehand." I nod.

We enter the elevator. Jordy pushes the button for the top floor and the one for ours. I get off on our floor and make a beeline to Kennedy's office. Folks at their desks follow me with their eyes. I call greetings but don't slow down.

Kennedy sees me through his office's glass walls and hastily wraps up his phone call, motioning for me to come in. He's in his early forties, medium height and weight, black, handsome regular features, that slightly nasal baritone and the wisest eyes I've ever seen. "Close the door."

I comply, and he comes around the desk, arms open. This is totally out of character for Kennedy, but I open mine back gladly. He smells like masculinity and pine. Holds me tightly saying, "Dammit, Jesseray, if you ever scare me like that again, I'm going to bust you back to permanent desk duty." We disengage.

"Believe me, sir, it was no picnic for me, either."

"So I understand. They had to shock you three times, huh?"

I nod. I pull my jacket away to show him the scar below my collar bone.

He hisses in through his teeth. "I'm so sorry that happened to you." He surveys me, ending up looking deeply into my eyes. "There are some very high-powered people up there. Are you ready for this? You look ready."

"Yes, sir, but it feels like I'm the defendant, and the jury's already reached its verdict."

"All the top brass are going to be there for you, Jess, including the Chief of Police. We won't let anything happen that you don't want to have happen."

My knees give out, and I feel for the chair behind me. I've been holding my fear in so tightly that I didn't realize how close it came to overwhelming me.

"Thank you, sir," I gasp. "That means everything to me." I choke back burgeoning tears.

He nods, his eyes kind. "I'm glad you brought a lawyer. John Ramsey, right?" I nod. Kennedy whistles. "A major player in the ACLU. I understand he plays golf with the Attorney General. That'll give you some clout with the Bureau." He winks at me, smiling. "But don't tell anyone I said that about bringing a lawyer because I'll deny it with my last breath."

I smile, regaining my inner balance. That's what I respect so much about this man. He can deal with the deep stuff and then pull you out of it, ready to face anything.

"We'd better get up there. It's one minute to eight. We're video-conferencing in Washington, D.C."

I gulp as he steers me by the elbow out of his office. My co-workers call their best wishes, and I wave. On my way by, I notice a new Cat Woman action figure in the middle of my desk. That little bit of acceptance and humor straightens my spine and warms my heart.

While we wait for the elevator, Kennedy explains, "You're officially assigned to the FBI task force investigating Agent Ryan's kidnapping." I thank him. There's no way I'll be able to focus on anything else.

We get on an elevator that already holds our grim-faced captain and the chief of police in their dress blues along with some obviously FBI suits. The air vibrates with tension.

I breathe deeply. These men in blue have my back. Thank you, God, for them, and especially for Lieutenant Kennedy. I know he's been running interference for me all morning.

We exit the elevator and enter the conference room. The big screen TV already shows some dour-looking suited types, a blond woman with an up-do and three middle-aged balding men in glasses: one short, one fat, one long and lean.

Everyone finds a chair. I take the one next to Ramsey, Lieutenant Kennedy settling in on my other side.

One of the guys on the TV says, "I got an interesting call from the Attorney General this morning."

_That_ attorney general? I was thinking the state attorney general. Holy crap, Ramsey _is_ a major player, _and_ he's a shapeshifter. I almost fan myself; things may get really hot in here with all the big guns firing. The guy talking must be the head of the FBI. This is a _major_ can of worms.

The man continues, "He informs me that our Bureau has been misusing its power in attempting to detain an American citizen without cause and perpetrating false arrest. Is this true, SSA Smith?"

Tiny sits very stiff in his chair. "Sir, I was acting under policy–" he reels it off-- "which is a matter of national security in the face of a major threat to a crucial medical facility. That is, I ensured that the suspect was unable to leave her hospital bed."

"Did you arrest her?"

"Yes, sir."

"On what charge?"

"Threat to national security."

Ramsey interjects, "I'm unfamiliar with that criminal charge, sir. Is she a suspected terrorist?"

The FBI suits eye each other. I see Tiny lock eyes across the table with a guy in a black suit with a yellow tie. His boss?

Tiny answers, "No."

Ramsey leans in aggressively, unabashedly usurping the questioning. "What actions of Detective Jesseray's did you observe that led you to believe she's a threat to national security?"

Tiny wipes his brow. "None. It's the Bureau's policy to detain all suspected shapeshifters due to their violent natures. Fifteen of them are currently incarcerated in federal prison." Clothes and papers rustle as the previously doubting react to squashed doubts. Several voices around the room whisper "shapeshifter."

See, shapeshifters _do_ exist. So there. And I'm living proof of it. _Shit_.

Ramsey settles back in his chair. "I see. So, the Bureau's thinking is if one shapeshifter is a violent killer, then they all are? That policy smacks of racial profiling."

Silence. Nobody moves. I can see now why Ramsey plays in the big leagues.

Ramsey purses his lips. "SSA Smith, did you observe Detective Jesseray change her shape?"

"Yes."

"Would you please share the circumstances?"

Tiny tells the story of our encounter with the vampires in the airport parking ramp. Another room-wide rustle and whisper occurs as he describes the vampires and the attack. Another myth confirmed as truth.

Ramsey continues, "At any time during this first transformation when she herself was under attack, did Detective Jesseray, in her second form, show any inclination to attack either you or Mr. Dunham?"

"No."

"Did she show any inclination to attack either of you after the vampires' attack was over?"

"No."

"Has Detective Jesseray been out of your sight since the attack?"

"Only briefly."

"Has she shown any indication during that time that she would physically attack you or Mr. Dunham?"

"No."

"Has she shown any sign that she lacks emotional control?"

I eye Tiny balefully. My 'snatching his hairy ass bald' comment at the hospital was made under extreme provocation. _And_ he deserved it.

"No," Tiny answers, avoiding my gaze.

"Even under extreme circumstances? Like when you attempted to prevent her from talking freely with her supervisor and me over the phone at her home? When you broke down her bathroom door in an attempt to stop the conversations?"

All movement in the room halts.

Tiny shifts restively. "No."

Ramsey lets quiet drift over the room like lightly falling snow, then picks his moment. "I'd like to introduce you to Patrick." Patrick stands and nods his way around the room and the TV. "Patrick is the Saint Paul pack leader of the resident shapeshifters."

The FBI leadership raises eyebrows and exchanges glances. Patrick sits down.

"Patrick, would you relate what you shared about your history and pack rules, hierarchy and organization in the Twin Cities area earlier this morning?"

Patrick retells his tale including the assertion that he's never said an angry word even during tax season. Members of the police department find this humorous. The FBI? Not so much.

The fat guy on the TV addresses Patrick, "How long have you been a shapeshifter, sir?"

"Twenty years."

"In that time, have you encountered shapeshifters who cannot control their natures?"

"Yes, but rarely."

"How does the pack deal with such creatures?"

Patrick sighs. "We request volunteers to hunt and put down the creature. We never pursue that course, however, until guilt is proven beyond a doubt by scent. Our senses of smell are very acute."

"During your twenty years as a shapeshifter, how many have your pack put down?"

"Two."

The FBI show varying degrees of astonishment.

"And what is the current population of the pack?"

"Just over seventy members of various types."

"Various types?" The man is obviously surprised.

Patrick nods. "Yes, the Twin Cities pack includes shapeshifters with second forms of cougars, wolves, bears, foxes, coyotes, bison and a few others. Also a couple of exotics like leopards and jaguars."

I lean forward, eager for more information about my new community, but Ramsey steps in to regain control of the conversation.

"Have we established Detective Jesseray's fitness to continue to serve and protect her community?"

The suits on TV look at each other. The fat guy asks, "Under supervision?"

Both Patrick and Kennedy speak up. "Yes."

Ramsey delivers the coup de gras. "To summarize, then. Detective Jesseray is no longer considered a threat to national security. She is free to continue living and working in the Twin Cities without fear of prejudice, repercussions or arbitrary and unwarranted arrest or incarceration. Speak now or forever hold your peace." He smiles benignly.

Silence.

"Excellent," Tiny's boss is obviously more of a diplomat than some of his fellow agents. "Let's ask Detective Jesseray, SSA Smith, and Mr. Dunham to leave, so they can plan their investigation into Agent Cathcart's kidnapping."

The long and lean guy on TV leans forward, "Before we do that, I'd like to hear what Mr. Dunham can tell us about vampires and the danger Agent Cathcart is in. We need a full understanding of the threat we're confronting."

Dunham jerks. He'd obviously been drifting off. The bags under his eyes are big and dark. "I beg your pardon. I'm afraid jetlag is catching up with me." Dunham shoots his cuffs and clears his throat. "According to my own experience, research and Interpol's records, here's what we know about vampires. They find sunlight very debilitating. In fact, a sixty second or longer exposure will cause them to burst into flame. They're very susceptible to fire. Not all classic vampire lore is true: they cannot turn into bats or a mist. They don't have to sleep in coffins or next to their native soil but will burrow into the earth rather than risk the sun or when they feel vulnerable. Garlic has no real impact on them except it masks other scents. Articles of faith held by true believers will repel or injure them: crosses, Stars of David, Buddha, the Tree of Life, pentacles, the Christian host, holy water, to name a few. Decapitation kills them as does staking through the heart with cherry or cedar wood. Other woods take longer to affect them and as a result, can be pulled out before causing permanent death. "

He takes a deep breath. "When vampires acquire a human with intent to turn them, they must exchange blood with the human over the course of three days. After the third exchange, the human is turned. No doubt, Agent Cathcart's kidnapper has already effected the first exchange." Dunham rubs his eyes. "Humans within two to three feet of vampires' eyes can be glamoured—which means having one's will stolen by the vampire. The glamoured appear glassy-eyed and obey telepathic orders from the vampire. Avoid looking into a vampire's eyes at all costs. Lead bullets do not injure them, but bullets with cedar or cherry wood centers turn them to ash when shot through their hearts. Stakes, arrows and crossbow bolts of those kinds of wood also turn them to ash. They are three times faster than humans and five times stronger. More gifted or what are called "blessed" shapeshifters can match their strength and speed during daylight hours. The newly turned blessed shapeshifter requires time to mature before they can match vampire strength. The older the vampire the stronger they are and more powerful their glamours. Vampires are completely unresponsive during daylight hours from dawn to sunset. Vampires with access to shapeshifter blood, especially older vampires—a century or older—can move around indoors during the day and outdoors on cloudy days near dawn and dusk."

He yawns behind a covering hand. "I have a full report on shapeshifters and vampires in hard copy here, and I'll email an electronic version to SSA Smith and Lieutenant Kennedy, who can distribute it as needed." Dunham divides a large stack of stapled papers and hands them off to either side of him. I take one, eager to digest it in detail later.

Tiny's boss gives the big nod, and Tiny and Dunham rise.

Ramsey leans close to my ear and murmurs, "I'll have Patrick leave a message on your cell when the other pack patrols report on any vampire nests they've detected. The pack will be happy to help in any way in this matter. Just give me or Patrick a call."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Ramsey. I owe you."

"You may be sure I'll collect, Detective. We put our pack members through their paces," he pats my forearm in a fatherly manner. I join Tiny and Dunham as they make for the door.

As we leave, I hear the chief of police say, "I'd like to raise the issue of keeping local law enforcement in the dark on matters that impact our citizenry. I thought we shared a spirit of cooperation and mutual support with the Bureau. Today, I learn, for the first time, that shapeshifters have been in our fair city for twenty years or longer. And vampires." He sounds royally perturbed.

Good, all local law enforcement should be, in my opinion. Ignorance has kept us unable to adequately protect our neighbors. I wonder how many missing persons cases are due to vampire kidnappings. And, surely, some of their victims die. What do they do with the bodies? There must be a helluva secret cemetery around the Twin Cities somewhere. Or in a nearby state forest? Under new building construction? They're the original serial killers. I'll do my damnedest to stop their predations—and rescue Ryan.

As we wait for the elevator, I examine my companions. Tiny looks like someone put him through the wringer. I guess Ramsey did. And Dunham looks like an empty pie shell—all the good stuff gone. I could use a nap myself.

"Look," I posit, "You're both obviously dead on your feet. How about we get some sleep and meet up again later today? Lucky for us, it's the end of June, so the sun doesn't go down until nine o'clock. How about we meet at my house at three this afternoon?"

"Four," Tiny ripostes. "Dunham's got to check into his hotel, and that will take some time."

That little voice in the back of my mind is still yammering, _Ryan,ryan,ryan...._

I nod. I'm not as tired as they are since I got _some_ sleep last night. I may go out after lunch and reconnoiter with my new, improved shapeshifter senses. Patrick texted the known St. Paul nests' addresses to me on the way to the station.

"And, you still need to drop me off at home." The enthusiasm on their faces would crush a more fragile ego.

The ride to my house is quiet, big surprise. We've been quite the talkative group all morning. They agree to meet me at my house at four o'clock.

I fill cat food and water bowls. Find and don my most comfortable jammies. Set an alarm. Pull the blackout shades in my bedroom and succumb to the seductive embrace of my bed. I fall asleep secure that I'm free. Not a fugitive on the lam. Thank all that's holy.

The alarm goes off at twelve thirty. I'm surprised I slept at all. Fear for Ryan is a constant murmur in the back of my mind. Another surprise is the full complement of felines on my bed. Maybe our collective bed scent overcame the strangeness of my changed one. Both cats respond purr-liciously to my overtures. Blood pressure and heart rate lower as I'm kneaded and head-butted. Nothing compares to kitty comfort.

A shower, olive linen slacks, a coral cami and a snacky lunch later, I'm ready. I throw on an olive short-sleeved jacket to cover my holster and badge. Put on the ankle holster. Raid the gun safe and saddle up. Then I snag Dunham's report to skim at stoplights along with a bulb of garlic to mask my scent as well as my water bottle. First stop, Summit Avenue. It's closest.

I hit construction on the way south. Minnesota has two seasons, winter and construction. Two-lane traffic, detours, concrete mixer trucks and bulldozers abound. I have ample time to peruse Dunham's report. He says shapeshifters are much stronger than an average human and are susceptible to silver. The old wives' tale about silver bullets is no fairy story. It's supposed to burn on contact, too. _Gree-aaaat_. I mentally inventory my jewelry collection. No accessory malfunctions, please. _But_. Before I left, I remembered to find and put on Grandma's confirmation present, a tiny gold cross necklace.

I ponder: do my extra-special powers come with an extra-special Achilles heel? I'll have to ask Dunham. Then, I wonder if my reaction to catnip will change. A weird picture floats through my head of me rolling around on my dining room rug with powdered catnip in my hair.

Now, that's just plain odd. Might I be a _smidge_ delusional? Naw. Short on sleep? A little. How 'bout just plain old silly? That, I'll admit to since it's my normal state. I grin. Self-mockery helps keep a person humble—and entertained.

The house two blocks from the governor's mansion is a three-story Victorian painted lady, splendidly back-grounded in silvery gray with navy and burgundy accents surrounded by beautiful gardens and a perfect lawn. I circle the block and park on a side street, rub garlic on the soles of my shoes, and stride down the alley. If questioned, I'm checking residential alley accesses and backyards for a murder weapon suspected abandoned in the area.

The house's backyard sports a tall privacy fence with an unlocked gate and two-stall garage with closed doors. I sniff surreptitiously at the garage doors. Motor oil and exhaust fumes. Dust, ash and rotten blood. Yep, this is the place. Human scents of horseradish and brown sugar. No honeysuckle. I bite my lip.

Go through the gate or wait for the guys? It's full daylight, so no danger from vampires, supposedly. Dunham didn't mention anything about humans supporting vampires. Didn't Dracula have Renfield? Should I go back to the car and consult Dunham's report before going in or mush on? I shrug. There's nothing like personal experience as a teacher. Besides, aren't I a big scary shapeshifter now? Who can set vampires on fire by bleeding on them? _Don't get cocky_ , I warn myself.

I pull open the spring-loaded gate, which has thankfully well-oiled hinges. I hold the gate so it doesn't shut with a bang. Japanese lilacs perfume the air heavily, blocking any lighter scents. Nice strategy for foiling a shapeshifter's nose.

I notice something brown on the grass by the walk and crouch to sniff. The lilacs' perfume is too heavy. I hope some dog hasn't dragged its butt across here. Vampires with dogs? Doesn't seem likely. I touch the brown spot. Some sticks to my fingers. A close sniff right under my nose. Grass and human blood. No honeysuckle. I track the blood specks down the sidewalk to the wooden back steps and move onto the grass beside the staircase to check the steps for blood before ascending.

Something clamps around my ankle.

I choke off a hearty scream, while pulling away from what's got me. It's a thin human hand. I squat to peer under the steps. Wide eyes plead through straggling brown hair and shadows, accompanied by a faint "Help me." Gently, I pull the hand and arm that follows. Then, there's resistance. I can see a terror-stricken face now. It's a young woman.

"He's holding onto me," she whispers. I grip both of her hands and haul with all my might. The might's substantially mightier than it was yesterday, I note. She slides out, her clothes and legs dusty, trailing old leaves and spider webs. As her lower legs emerge, gray, skeletal hands grasping her ankles come into view. I shift my hold to her waist and yank with all my outrage. Her captor's hands unlock when sunlight strikes them, fingers curling back under the steps like large spider legs.

The sight incites rage. I grit, "You hell spawn."

Moving faster than I thought possible, I grab the arms before they can retreat fully under the porch. A final wrench brings him into the sunlight—a medium-long body in jeans and a green shirt. Like a beetle, he scuttles backward toward the under-step cave. I drag him out again.

Grimly, I bite the inside of my cheek and spit bloody saliva on him over and over. Finally, he ignites with a satisfying _foomph_ , and I back hastily away _._ Strangely enough, he's silent. Memories screaming during the flameouts at the airport parking ramp play through my mind.

I survey the back of the house. Not a curtain twitches. Darned lucky for us, but, I decide, the faster we're out of sight of those staring windows, the better.

The young woman has no control over her larger muscles as I heave her up onto her feet. My arm around her waist, her arm across my shoulders, I maneuver us down the sidewalk. Out of the corner of one eye, I continue to watch the windows out. Nothing. We make it out the gate, one of my feet catching it to prevent a loud slam. She's taller than me so our progress to my car is slow and awkward. My shapeshifter's enhanced strength is a godsend; however, I shake all the way down the alley as rage and adrenaline batter my brain. Damn those vicious, ugly, evil things. _Do your deep breathing. DJ_ , I tell myself. _Think of the girl and what she needs._

Finally, we reach the street and my car. I fumble keys from my jacket pocket and hit the unlock button. After getting her arranged in the passenger seat and seat-belted in, I leap around and into the driver's side and drive off. Her shorts show blood on the hem and higher. He went for the femoral artery then. She has blood crusted around her lips, so he was trying to turn her. _Ugh_. The memory of his flaming body finally drowns my rage with satisfaction.

Sunlight seems to relieve some of her torpor. She's probably dehydrated, so I hand her my water bottle with a "Drink it all." I open all the windows and the sunroof. Light, fresh air, water—all of that should stimulate her. I wonder if she needs a transfusion.

"How long were you under there?"

Her head droops, but she rolls her eyes toward me. "He snatched me this morning right before first light. I was on my way across campus to work the breakfast shift at the cafeteria."

I have no idea what to do with the victim of a vampire attack when vampires aren't supposed to exist. I pull over, scrounge for my phone, scroll to one of my newest contacts and call.

An internal tickle of mischief is satisfied when a sleep-slurred voice answers. Shame on me.

"SSA Smith."

"Hey, sleepyhead," I ooze perkiness. "I've discovered a vampire victim who needs medical attention. Since vampires aren't out of the closet yet, I probably shouldn't take her to a public hospital, right?"

Silence. Then, flatly, "Jesseray."

"None other," I carol. "Now, how can we provide care for this young woman?"

He sighs. "Let me contact the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of this task force."

"If you'd like, just give him my number," I offer helpfully. "Then you can go back to sleep."

He mumbles, "...doubt I'll be getting much more sleep," then speaks more clearly. "Someone will call within the next few minutes."

"Thank you, SSA Smith," I chirp.

I check my rescuee. She's got more color in her face, but her eyes are closed. Would food help? Her blood sugar is probably in the toilet. I always keep a few packages of nuts in my center console. Upon flipping it open, an array greets my eyes: peanuts, smoked almonds, cashews and pistachios.

Selecting one, I pat her forearm. "What's your name? C'mon, stay with me."

She rouses. "Jenny."

I hand her the opened package of nuts. "Why don't you eat this and finish the water?" She nods woozily, fumbles with the package, manages to palm a handful of nuts and bring them to her mouth. She chews slowly. Everything about her seems in slow motion.

My cell rings. "Jesseray."

"Detective Jesseray, this is Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lawson. SSA Smith tells me you require medical assistance for a vampire victim."

"Yes, sir."

"Where are you?" I tell him.

"There's a discreet facility not far from you. It appears to be a nursing home. Pull your car around back. I'll text you the name and address and meet you there. I'm at our Resident Agency on 5th, so I'll be right behind you."

"Thank you, sir." I disconnect. Seconds later, the information flashes onto my phone's screen. Hmm, I think I know that place. It's off Randolph and Snelling, within a mile or so. My passenger has dutifully finished both nuts and water, but she's slumping forward in her seat belt again. I touch her cheek. It's cold and clammy, and her eyes are rolled back in her head. I fire up the head and head out, red and blues on.

As I'm driving, pictures of Ryan's face flash before me. His beautiful blue eyes rolled back, seemingly unaware. Face cold and clammy, body limp. I wonder if this is how all vampire victims react. Or, if the torpor is physical only, and he's trapped in his body, terrified. Knowing full well what's happening to him and unable to help himself.

I'm trembling _. Ohmigod, Ryan, ohmigod, ohmigod_ throbs through me in time with my heartbeat. Tears well up. I swallow thickly.

_This isn't helping him_ , I remind myself gently _. It's not helping her, and it's not helping you. Breathe deeply._ It's time to engage my left brain with a complex problem. What actions can you take that will help Ryan the most? What attitude is going to be most beneficial with this Assistant Special Agent in Charge? What impression do you want Lawson to have of you?

Cool, calm professionalism. Listen to and watch Lawson. Find out where his head's at. Ask intelligent questions about task force policy and procedure, about his knowledge of the Twin Cities supernatural community. See if he has different knowledge of vampires from what Dunham wrote in his report, what Jenny's prognosis is. Ask what they tell vampire victims when vampires are a big secret? How do they keep victims from spreading the word?

I pull into the alley for that block off Randolph and steer into the employee parking lot. Orderlies exit the back door with a gurney, load up my passenger and wheel her inside. I follow them in.

Before the door can close behind me, it's re-opened. I turn to see who's coming in. The man I suspected was Tiny's boss at the conference steps in behind me, clad in a black suit, crisp white shirt, yellow tie. He's about five eleven with neatly trimmed blond-brown hair, an oval face with a pointed chin, blunt nose and light gray eyes.

Lawson pulls me by the arm into a nearby empty office and closes the door. Retaining a tight grip, he scrutinizes me up close and personal. Too close. Offensively close.

He inquires in a friendly tone, "Are you going to be a problem, Detective Jesseray? Are you a loose cannon?"

## Chapter 5

_What?_ I gently remove my arm from his grasp and step out of reach. See, my self-control's terrific; I'd really prefer to wrench my arm away from him and smack him upside the head. I've never appreciated being accosted and hauled around by strange men. I stuff down my irritation.

How to handle this?

Play for time.

"I don't understand, sir." My voice is low, careful and very respectful.

"I was under the impression that you, SSA Smith and Mr. Dunham were meeting at four o'clock to plan your investigation. How did you come in contact with this victim?"

Clearly and calmly, I explain my desire to reconnoiter the known east side vampire addresses. I assert that I want come prepared with concrete physical facts to the meeting. Then I share the movements that led me to the victim and aftermath. When I finish, I wait, standing straight, arms at my sides, hands relaxed. I look directly into his eyes the entire time. I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. He glances away first.

Lawson begins in the same friendly tone. "While I'm sure your creativity and initiative are greatly respected in the Homicide squad room, Detective, while you are on _my_ task force, I expect different behaviors." His ending tone is much less friendly, icy, in fact.

I want to cross my arms defensively or spit in his face. Tempting, very tempting. _But_. I'm a mature, professional officer of the law, I remind myself, so I don't. "I was under the impression that this is a joint task force between MSP PD and the FBI." I'm proud of how calm my tone is. See, I _am_ a professional _and_ a very self-controlled new shapeshifter. Otherwise, I'd be ripping his face off.

"You've made a misassumption, Ms. Jesseray. This task force is FBI jurisdiction, and you're under my supervision."

I meet his eyes squarely. "Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?"

"SSA Smith was to have informed you of it at your four o'clock meeting."

"I see. And what different behaviors do you expect from me while I'm working on _your_ task force, Mr. Lawson?" Two can play this game of skipping titles.

He fixes me with stern, cold eyes and hands me a large book he's held under his arm. "I expect you to follow FBI policies and procedures at all times. They're clearly written here. Read the book from cover to cover. Ask SSA Smith if you have any questions. You will be in charge of completing and filing all paperwork associated with the investigation and the task force as soon as possible each day. That includes the investigation plan you and your task force members will complete this afternoon. For you, this is higher priority than field work. From now on, SSA Smith is your direct supervisor. You will comply with his directives at all times." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and hands me a slip of paper. "This is your temporary ID and password to the Bureau's internet site accessing our forms. The online tutorial, which you can begin working through this afternoon, is very clear but rather time consuming, I'm afraid. Most of our new agents report that it takes them a full eight hours to complete it. I wouldn't be surprised if it took you longer."

What an _ass_ he is. So, he thinks I'm slower than their new agents, huh? It's time to get all this on record. I reach into my jacket pocket for my cell phone. Without just a few light touches, I engage the voice recording feature.

"Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lawson, I'd like to repeat what I thought you said to ensure my understanding is crystal clear." Yep, that's me, professional and precise.

"Of course," he replies easily, smiling. I repeat it, nearly verbatim in firm, bell-like tones.

"That is correct. I'm glad my instructions were clear."

My face is bland, my eyes relaxed. Inside, I'm riding an erupting volcano. See, self-controlled.

"Another question, sir."

"Yes?" That same friendly tone, the friendly face, cold eyes.

"If the question of my being a menace to national security had been subject to a vote this morning, how would you have voted, sir? For me or against me?"

His eyes flick to the right. "For you, of course, Ms. Jesseray. You're going to be an essential member of this investigative task force." _Rii-iight_. Filing the paperwork.

His dropping my title doesn't escape me nor does the slightly sour odor that escapes him. Hmm.

"Thank you," I murmur.

I turn to the door and open it. "By the way, sir, I'm curious."

"You're a very curious woman, Ms. Jesseray."

"Yes, I am. It's essential for my job." I arch a meaningful eyebrow at him. No, you haven't cowed me, you supercilious S-o-B. "When an MSP PD _detective_ saves a civilian's life, she, at minimum, gets an 'atta girl.' When does Bureau management offer positive reinforcement?" I insert my hand into my jacket pocket and turn off the phone's recording feature.

I exit the room, heading toward the exit.

He calls after me. "You'll be returning home to wait until the meeting at four o'clock, correct?"

"Of course." I wonder if he can smell the sour odor coming off of me. Doubtful.

I climb into my car and input the address of the Inver Grove Heights vampire nest into the onboard GPS. I reverse sedately and drive slowly down the alley.

"Seething" describes my state of mind—and it's an understatement. At the first stoplight, I pull up the music player on my phone, find the right playlist and select Shinedown's "Bully." I plug the phone into the onboard converter and crank the volume.

Lawson, champion slinger of BS, was intentionally marginalizing me through his "instructions." Nice try. Screw him. Oh, I'll go through the motions and file their paperwork _if and only if_ my MSP PD bosses tell me to. _But_. _I'm_. _Not._ Sitting in front of an effing computer while my fiancé's being turned into a walking, blood-sucking corpse. No _freakin'_ way.

At the next stoplight, I compose an email to Lieutenant Kennedy and attach the Lawson conversation file. In it, I also request a confirmation or clarification of Lawson's assertion of jurisdiction and my role on the task force. I blind courtesy copy Dunham so he's informed of the feces hitting the oscillator with the bureaucratic BS. The stoplight's really long, due to construction, so I flip through my playlist 'til I find some old Evanescence tunes, starting with "Bring Me to Life." With a tap, it plays.

The growling chords resonate with my rage as I turn onto 35E. It's after two-thirty. I'll be lucky to find and scope out the vampire nest in IGH before rush hour. At least, I'll be driving against traffic on the way back instead of with it. It's time for lights and sirens; I flip them on and stomp the pedal.

A text message ring chimes over the music as I take the exit ramp to Highway 110. Pause the music and check the message. Tiny's changing the location of our four o'clock to the FBI's Resident Agency on 5th, address included. Mental shrug. That suits me; I've hosted my last tea party for him.

Lawson's really ignorant of shapeshifter abilities if he thinks he can lie to me. I'd never smelled that sour odor before. Once it hit my nostrils, there was no doubt what it meant, though. He's a lying sack of fresh excrement, and, he's definitely in the "Jesseray's a menace to society" camp. Then I wonder; was all his crap a test to see if he could break my control? If so, it didn't work. But, if Lieutenant Kennedy confirms AiC Lawson's instructions, then I'll have egg on my face. If not, Lawson's behavior is another mystery.

Something tickles at the back of my brain: Lawson's scent. It's like he intentionally neutralized it. He was so close when he pulled me into the office that it should have hit me right square in the olfactory nerves. But I didn't get _anything_ off him...except a tiny.... Maybe he isn't so clueless about shapeshifter abilities after all. As I turn south on Highway 52, that faint scent refuses to identify itself. Something in me gnashes frustrated teeth. Putting a name to that scent will shed a whole lot of light, I'm sure of it.

When I find the house, I repeat my earlier tactics. But, the sniff-over reveals only fresh vampire scent, no sign of Ryan's honeysuckle scent. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

Upon re-entering my car, the phone's text message tone chimes again. It's Patrick with eight more addresses. I pound my forehead on the steering wheel. Two more east side and six west of the river. Eight more places to find and check. By the time we get the ever-so-essential "investigative plan" hammered out and duly filed, we'll be lucky to get to North Oaks before it's dark. I'm not thrilled at the idea of storming vampires' towers at night. Not after seeing them in action and feeling Ryan's kidnapper's power last night. I feel my jaw and sternum. They're both bruised to the bone, even with several hours of super shapeshifter healing ability and sleep applied. But, I've eliminated two east side addresses already. Another text message comes in. Lieutenant Kennedy wants me to call. At the next stoplight, I text back "in 10."

I'm flagging. My snacky lunch has long deserted me—not normal for me. I'm craving protein, much more than usual. I must be replacing the blood lost during the attack last night and healing my bone bruises. I find a convenience store, snag a carbonated caffeine source, some turkey jerky and string cheese, find a mini-box of Triscuits, and I'm good to go. Protein, whole grain carbs and caffeine. Brain food. After making my purchases, I locate a little park I'd driven by earlier, break open the goodies and call my boss.

"DJ. Thanks for calling back." Kennedy's voice is warm. _But_. I balk. He's never called me DJ; it's always been Jesseray or detective before. Something big has changed. _Eeek_. Please no, don't let it be a jurisdiction change or transfer to FBI supervision. _Please_.

I brief him on my activities up to recording Lawson and me. Kennedy's silence is eloquent when I share how I sniffed out Lawson's lie.

"I'm not surprised to hear that." He sighs wearily. "If you'd stayed for the rest of the meeting this morning, you'd have witnessed some very undignified wrangling and posturing. The FBI is not at all enthusiastic about having you on the task force. Your recent status change to shapeshifter is only one reason. Some argued, and rightfully so, I might add, that you're too close to the victim. However, the chief of police _and_ the governor were both emphatic. The task force _must_ have a local police representative because this is happening in our cities and state. The governor called in after you left."

Wow. _All_ the big guns are firing. How long before the President calls? I grin at my own joke.

Kennedy continues, "With your record and abilities, there's no doubt to any of us on the police force that you're the best fit for this joint task force. You'll be expected to cooperate with the Bureau, but you're _not_ the task force's administrative assistant _nor_ do you report to them. You do not, and I repeat, do not, have duties around filing paperwork for the Bureau. That's Smith's job and his assistant's. Until this is over, you report directly to the chief of police. I repeat, you do not take direction from the Bureau. Funnel your progress through me. I'll pass it along to the chief. I'll email you these orders as well as AAiC Lawson, SSA Smith, and the Interpol consultant."

Thank heavens. And wow, again. Totally different from what Lawson told me. What the _hell_ is going on? A political hornet's nest or something more sinister? I wonder if anyone's checked Lawson's orders to me with those above his pay grade. Like the Agent in Charge? Is this coming from just Lawson or is he the mouthpiece for the Bureau bigwigs?

"Here's the chief's directive, DJ: trust your instincts. They're rock solid, and they always have been. Your record proves that. Again, the department is behind you a hundred percent. We trust you to keep our communities' best interests at heart. Right now, we _do not want_ the general public to know that vampires and shapeshifters are among us. Within the department, it's need-to-know only. No one in the squad is aware of the significance of your injury last night or who kidnapped Agent Cathcart. All they know is that you're representing the department on an FBI task force. Not even Burke knows, and let's keep it that way."

"Yes, sir. Thank you so much for setting things straight for me."

"That recording was inspired, Detective. The chief was very impressed by your quick thinking."

"Thank you, sir, and thank you for having my back. It means a lot."

"Just doing my job." I hear a teasing note.

"Rii-iight, sir. I need to go. My meeting's in fifteen."

"By the way, excellent work on saving that young lady. I'm monitoring her progress. Make me proud again, DJ."

"I'll do my best." We disconnect. I jump in the car, input the Resident Agency's address in the GPS and take off. Kennedy's approach had been the polar opposite of Lawson's—including the positive stroke for saving the vampire victim. I blow a breath up through my bangs. I'm infinitely grateful not to be reporting up through Lawson. I don't envy Tiny one bit.

On the way, my mind nibbles at everything Lawson said, his lies, that elusive scent. Whatever's going on within the Bureau or with Lawson specifically, I wonder about Tiny's headspace around all this. Worried sick about Ryan like me? Or couldn't care less? Caught between a rock and hard place? Up to his eyeballs in alligators and guilty as hell? Any other clichés I can throw in there? All useless speculation until I see him, and even then, will he tell me anything? Not likely.

My cell rings. I check the display. It's Jordy. I've never had to hold out on him before. So not looking forward to this. I engage the Bluetooth option and swipe to answer.

"Talk to me, Jordy."

"Where are you?"

"Heading north on Highway 52 to a meeting at the 5th street FBI Resident Agency."

"Up to your ass in crocodiles then. How're you feeling?"

"Fine but frazzled. Going bald from stress." That's an inside joke referring to the number of receding hairlines in the squad.

Jordy snorts. "Any news on Cathcart?"

"None."

Silence. He sighs. "I know you can't tell me anything. The lid's clamped tighter on this than my gramma's pressure cooker on 'High.' But...I gotta tell ya, I miss your smart mouth and klutziness."

My turn to snort. "Didja see the new Cat Woman figurine on my desk?"

"Yeah." I hear the smile.

"Know who's guilty?"

"Yep." This time it's a smug grin I hear. Aha!

"She'll make a memorable enema."

He laughs ruefully. "Ouch, Jess. Tender parts pucker at the thought." I chuckle.

"I won't keep you." He pauses. "Just know that we're all pulling for you and Cathcart, okay?"

"Thanks." I don't dare say anymore, or I'll bawl like a baby.

"And Jess? If there's anything you need, call. I'll be right there."

"I know you will, Jordy. I couldn't ask for a better partner."

"Backatcha."

"Bye." We disconnect. Tears threaten. I miss him and would love to have him at my back, but I wouldn't have him in this for anything. It's just too damned dangerous and uncertain. _I_ wouldn't want to be in it if it weren't for Ryan. This new shapeshifter strength, speed and agility are awesome, true. _But_. I don't know many of the trade-offs either. I don't know enough yet. I just don't know....Time enough to worry about that when it's over.

Phone rings again. John Ramsey. Eyebrows up. What's he want?

"Mr. Ramsey."

"Detective Jesseray. Did Patrick send you the locations of the vampire nests west of the Mississippi?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have no illusions that you and your official cohorts will be able to travel to all those locations and sniff for traces of Agent Cathcart before dark today or even over the next few days. I'd like to offer the help of your new pack."

I'm thrilled but cautious. Ramsey doesn't seem like the kinda guy to do favors for nothing. "That would be grand, sir. But...."

"What?"

"What's in it for you? The pack?"

Ramsey hesitates. "We want to help eliminate as many vampires as possible."

"Why?"

"When they can, they capture us because our blood is more potent than humans'. It allows them to move around during daylight for a few hours."

"Is there more?"

He's silent longer. "They try to capture our children and enslave them through small doses of their own blood. It doesn't work on adults because our brains are fully developed."

"How many young shapeshifters are enslaved?"

Again with the pause. My intuition says there's something personal behind this. "Anywhere from eight to ten that we're aware of. When they're enslaved, they're loyal to the vampire whose blood they consumed. They'll fight to the death for their slave master."

_Yeee-ouch_. I can see why this would stick in the shapeshifters' collective craw. "If vampires capture shapeshifters for blood donors when they can, why would pack members volunteer?"

"To free their children, of course. The chance of being captured during the day is minimal because vampires are either very slow or totally dead. We're also unable to be turned into vampires, and if we're in our second form, we can't be glamoured. The children can't be unglamoured unless their master dies, so we pursue that—ardently. Then, death itself is an emancipation for those enslaved."

Jeesh. "Sounds like a suicide mission or a pyrrhic victory at best."

"For some of the smaller types, yes, but a few shifters are so big and ferocious that even vampires hesitate to tackle them in their second forms."

"Like?"

"Siberian tiger, the largest bears, bison. These types can decapitate a vampire with the swipe of a paw or a good kick. Because we're this far north, the pack includes a few large bears. Their noses are the finest in the land."

I process this for a second. "I can't commit the task force, but, I'll check in with them during the upcoming meeting. Then, we'll conference-call Patrick in for our response. Will you be able to be in the same room with him?"

"I'll make sure it happens. By the way, how might we identify Agent Cathcart's scent?"

I have to pause while I swallow the sudden obstruction in my throat as memory intrudes. "Honeysuckle." It was the first thing I noticed about him besides his eyes.

My GPS informs me that I'll reach my destination in one block. I'm sure Ramsey hears it.

My lamentable curiosity is unstoppable. "Who'd you lose to the vampires, Mr. Ramsey?"

Long silence. "My daughter."

"I'm so sorry." He disconnects.

On that cheerful note, I turn into the parking lot at 180 South Fifth, Suite 627, sixth floor then. I park, check email, forward on a couple, grab Lawson's book of FBI policies, my phone and bag. After locking the car, I head in. A short ride in the elevator spits me into a formal lobby where I ask the receptionist for SSA Smith. She sends me down a bland corridor to a conference room obviously set aside for meetings with the public. All other doors require key card access.

Dunham and Tiny sit in standard chairs in a sterile room with a window overlooking the parking lot. I check my cell phone's readout. I'm right on time. I close the door behind me. It's time to lay my cards on the table.

Tiny nods to me. I nod back.

"Mr. Dunham, you're looking much more chipper," I smile.

He looks puzzled. "Chipper?"

"Rested, energized."

Dunham smiles slightly. "Quite."

"Tiny, you look like shit." His skin bags around his eyes, making them beadier than normal. His khaki suit looks lived in.

"Thanks." Dry as the Sahara. "You look like you've been at it awhile."

"I have." I cock an eyebrow at him. "Did Assistant Agent in Charge Lawson brief you on his conversation with me?"

He studies the tabletop. "Yes. My orders are very clear."

"Yes, he was very clear with me as well. Unfortunately, he appears to be operating under some misapprehensions."

Tiny glances up. Do I detect hope in his eyes? I slide the large book across the table to him, the slip of paper inserted inside the front cover.

Dunham's head swings between us like a metronome. He's decked in a tailored lightweight matte gray suit and blue shirt that sets off his eyes. Quite the sharp-dressed man. It's tempting to check under the table for the footwear accessorizing his ensemble, but I resist. His consultant career obviously pays well.

"I emailed a recording of my conversation with AAiC Lawson to my supervisor and copied in Mr. Dunham. Afterward, I had a very enlightening chat with Lieutenant Kennedy. He emailed me a summary of it. I've forwarded both files to you, SSA Smith. I also forwarded Lieutenant Kennedy's email to you, Mr. Dunham, so you have all the pertinent facts at your fingertips. I've sent all this to you both because I feel that before we begin, we all need to be on the same page. While you both get up to speed, may I request some materials from the receptionist, SSA Smith?"

Smith waves me on my way. Both men are glued to their electronic devices.

From the receptionist, I collect a map of the Twin Cities metro area, other sundry meeting necessities, and put the conference room on permanent reserve for the task force.

Internally I'm reciting my new mantra: yes, I _will_ be a loose cannon. I _will_ be a big problem to anyone who obstructs my mission to rescue Ryan, including Assistant Agents in Charge, Bureau chiefs or J. Edgar Hoover's ghost. Especially since I'm backed by full Minnesota authority.

I'm not sure what authority is backing Lawson. _But._ It sure as hell doesn't feel like truth, justice and the American way. My determination is like bedrock. We _will_ prevail. We _will_ find Ryan.

I return to the conference room and pin the map to the cork wall. Large colored dot stickers identify the general vampire locations across the Twin Cities metro but no specific addresses. I write my observations of the two houses I checked on sticky notes and post them by those two dots.

Dunham looks up from his screen and searches my eyes. He nods at what he sees there. Tiny glances up from his screen. His relief is obvious. I feel my first warm fuzzies for Tiny. It's a disconcerting feeling.

"Gentlemen. You may or may not have noticed that I disabled forwarding on all those messages." They nod. It's CYA for both Tiny and me.

Next, I brief them on my activities and the Twin Cities' pack leader's offer, pointing out the vampire lairs. I keep Ramsey's name and his volunteers' terrible danger out of it. I see knowledge of their risk in Dunham's eyes, though. I nod slightly, acknowledging it. Tiny misses the byplay. His eyes are back on his screen.

Tiny clears his throat. "It's good that you've eliminated two of the eastern addresses. I'd suggest hitting the North Oaks location ourselves as soon as we adjourn here. Given our assailants' clothing quality, an upscale neighborhood as their lair makes some sense." He stops. "Oh, by the way." He reaches into a cloth bag I'd overlooked on the table in front of him. "Here are your badges. You're now officially members of the Governor's Task Force on Missing Persons." We look over our badges.

I'm in full agreement getting to North Oaks ASAP. "Thanks. Now, how about we consult our pack partners on the rest of the evening's agenda?" At their nods, I pull over the Polycom and punch in Patrick's number, put it on speaker and adjust the volume.

"Patrick speaking."

Tiny leans toward the nearest microphone. "Patrick, this is SSA Smith. Detective Jesseray says you shared addresses of the vampire nests the pack has scouted out. On behalf of the Bureau, we deeply appreciate these leads."

Patrick murmurs disclaimers.

Tiny continues. "She also reports that your pack has offered its assistance in checking those addresses for Agent Cathcart's scent. Could you provide some details on how your teams usually work in such circumstances?"

Patrick's accountant's voice comes clearly out of the speakers. "There are three individuals whose noses are powerful enough to pick up very faint scents. They are backed up by teams of six, but we're reluctant to deploy them after dark due to danger of capture. The detective shared that Agent Cathcart's scent was reminiscent of honeysuckle."

Tiny raises his eyebrows. I wonder if Ryan is in for teasing because of his girly scent. _Dear_ _God, make it so!_ I pray. "We understand. It's our intention to check a well-to-do eastside address before dark ourselves."

"We could possibly take the two addresses in northeast Minneapolis after we check out North Oaks," I suggest. "Barring any odd outcomes there." And with judicious use of lights and sirens to bypass inconvenient traffic.

Everyone agrees.

Dunham speaks up for the first time. "We should talk about daylight dangers before anyone stalks house perimeters."

He repeats the warning about enslaved shapeshifters. Tiny is obviously surprised. A grim silence over the speaker phone underscores the packs' unfortunate previous awareness.

"What about humans?" I ask.

"Vampires keep enslaved blood donors as daylight guards and dogs-bodies. Most are usually armed with regular ordinance as well as silver shot and bullets. They are fanatically loyal to their masters. Anyone, including shapeshifters in human form, bitten by a vampire experiences extreme sexual pleasure when attacked through a major artery. The theory is that hormones released through vampires' saliva travel quickly to the brain in the freshly oxygenated blood. Those bitten seek out the bite after that. Bites to the arm or other places simply cause pain."

I shudder. _Don't think about Ryan seeking out the bite_ , I adjure myself. A picture the vampire's long black hair pooling on Ryan's groin as he feeds forms on my mind's screen. I have to force down bile. "Are vampires susceptible to silver, too?"

"No," Dunham shakes his head. "Does the pack have wooden bullets and shot?"

"No, too noisy." Patrick's voice is gruff. "Stakes and short spears. Splat guns loaded with holy water. Some of us are archers. Some use small crossbows. All of us wear holy symbols on bracelets and collars, even in our second forms."

"Don't those inhibit the shift?" I ask.

"Yes, they could but bracelets drop off, and the collars are made of an extra-stretchy spandex."

I make a mental note to ask where I can get one later.

"May we call you at eight forty-five to share progress?" Dunham asks Patrick.

"Sounds good."

"Good hunting." Tiny punches the button to hang up.

Dunham digs into a hitherto unseen duffel on the floor. He hands me a splat gun and then pulls out his own gun. A Browning hi-power 9mm like mine.

Tiny asks, "Are your guns machined for suppressors?"

We both nod.

Retrieving them from his jacket pocket, Tiny hands Dunham and me the small metal shapes. Since silencers are illegal for civilians in Minnesota, Dunham could not purchase them from a local gun shop. We all affix them to the muzzles of our guns. Because we'll be going into residential neighborhoods, a quieter report and a lesser muzzle flash will be essential for maintaining secrecy and deterring civilian curiosity. Unlike what's shown on TV or in the movies, silencers don't eliminate all gunfire noise; they just muffle it somewhat.

Dunham hands me two clips of the wooden-centered bullets and a left-hand draw shoulder rig for the splat gun. He hands similar items to Tiny. We eject our clips of regular ammunition, remove the chambered rounds and insert wooden bullet clips, loading and racking a new wooden round, ready for firing, and then ensure the safeties are on. As we adjust straps to fit, Dunham plunks his duffel on the table. He pulls out a sawed-off shotgun and lays it aside. Next, a suppressed Smith & Wesson .38 MP goes at the small of his back, then, a snub-nosed revolver into an ankle holster. Dunham shrugs off his jacket and slides a long slim blade out of the duffel and slips on its accompanying dual arm rig. So that's what he was slashing around with at the airport. He shows it to us and explains that it's dipped in holy water and has an inlaid cherry wood strip down the center. As he scabbards it and turns to retrieve his jacket, I see that its point rests an inch or two above the gun butt. His hair is long enough in back to cover the hilt.

He dons a supple, wide, flesh-colored collar and hands another to Tiny. I catch his eye with a quirked eyebrow.

"The collars are Kevlar. Agent Smith and I already have vests on. Do you?"

I'd donned mine as I'd gotten ready this afternoon. I nod and assume a plaintive tone. "Don't I get a pretty choker?"

"You know you don't need one...." he smiles grimly.

Finally, he clips a splat gun on a pull cord to the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. He replaces his shotgun and zips the duffel.

"Ready to hit the road?" I ask. We head out, locking the conference room door behind us.

Tiny claims a black SUV in the lot, Dunham rides shotgun, and I get the back with Dunham's enticing duffel. My fingers itch to paw through it.

I give Tiny the North Oaks address. After punching it into the GPS, he hits the lights and sirens and pulls out of the lot. Dunham glances over his shoulder and sees me eyeing his duffel. He laughs and slides out of his seat into the back with me, re-buckling his seatbelt once there. Opening the duffel again, he shows me shurikens etched with the ohm symbol, Star of David, tree of life, the cross, a dove representing the Christian Holy Spirit. He hands me an elongated cross of cherry with a sharpened end, which he tells me I can keep. He has lots of crosses, stakes, short spears and a couple of mini crossbows. He shows me the wooden arrows for them as well as hollow darts filled with holy water.

By that time, we've exited I-94 on a northbound ramp, heading into North Oaks. Once we pass the city limits sign, Tiny shuts off the siren. Within four blocks of the address south of Pleasant Lake, he kills the lights. On Meadow Lark Lane, the real estate is ritzy, large velvety lawns and McMansions with swimming pools in a northern climate with only six months of good weather.

West of our target address, we park in a driveway a couple of houses down where a realtor's sign mars a pristine lawn. No alleys to sneak down here. But, no privacy fences dare obscure the sweep of open lawns either. Good thing I wore flats today.

We confer. How about an indirect approach? Walk across the backyards as close to the property line as possible, up the farthest side of the driveway and check out the three-car garage. My earlier story about searching for a murder weapon should still hold water here if the neighbors get nosy.

I'm in full sneak mode, my olive suit blending well with the foliage bordering the house next to our target. Dunham's gray does, too. We cross both back lawns with no problem.

But, before we come within a hundred yards of the house, I know we're in trouble.

## Chapter 6

Hummingbirds zip around red honeysuckle vines climbing on arbors set around a screened-in patio. Their perfume pervades everything. So much for using my nose to sniff for Ryan. Now, what?

Before we can talk about it, a man exits the target house's screened-in patio to walk toward us. His gait is aggressive, body stiff in his pressed khakis and starched open-necked oxford shirt. The westering sun is hidden behind a cloud bank and the tall trees at our backs. From the east a breeze skips through the flowerbeds. We're down-wind. I nudge Tiny forward. To stay out of scenting range, Dunham and I hang back while Tiny approaches him.

I look over my shoulder at Dunham. His pupils are dilated. Yep, he's seeing the same thing I am. A death's head, and not just any vampire—one who's fed on shapeshifter blood to be outside in the shade while the sun's up. After a brief conversation, Tiny turns, smiling and motions us over.

"How sharp are their noses?" I breathe.

"Not as sharp as ours, but stay downwind."

Tiny's got his public charm face on. "This is Mr. Seiversen, the homeowner. He's agreed to allow us to check his garage for the vehicle we saw during the kidnapping."

That seems suspiciously cooperative without a warrant. Then, I get a good look at Tiny's eyes—glassy like he's been on an all-night bender. He's glamoured. Great. _But_. Let's see where this goes.

"You're very kind, Mr. Seiversen," I murmur.

We follow him around the house's east side to the three closed garage doors. A hedgerow on one side and a row of trees on the other block the neighbors' views. Something about this feels wrong. Readiness gathers in my muscles.

Seiversen punches in a code for the nearest garage door. It reveals the rear of a silver Jaguar XF. Seiversen keeps motioning us closer. I hold Tiny back a good fifteen feet.

The second door exposes a lime-gold Porsche Boxster convertible. I slide my Browning from the right holster and hide it behind Tiny. He's pulling hard against my hand grasping his bicep. Dunham's moving surreptitiously, too. He's drawn the gun from the small of his back, holding it slightly behind his leg.

Door number three rolls open, and Seiversen strolls inside. This door issues a series of blurs—vampires racing flat out at us. I push Tiny behind me. Dunham and I open fire with our silenced weapons. We both manage chest shots on two vampires who crumble to ash. Target practice _does_ help. From behind the third garage's cargo van, three more blurs rocket toward us. I shoot one at point blank range. Ash explodes in my face.

Arms clamp around my waist from behind. It's Tiny. Crap!

I elbow him in the ribs. "Snap out of it!"

Next to me, Dunham's empties his clip into the last two. They shower us with ash as Seiversen saunters back out of the garage. Beside him shuffles a nearly-grown grizzly bear. _Oh_. _Shit_.

Tiny changes his grip to a head lock. Talk about lousy timing.

"Dammit, you lummox." I elbow him hard in the gut and then rake the side of my shoe down his shin. When he hops on the other one in pain, I kick his foot out from under him. All this time, Dunham's firing splat balls at Seiversen who stays out of range.

The grizzly shambles eagerly toward Dunham who's backing away. I aim and advance on Seiversen, shooting only when I have a clear view of his heart to preserve the precious wooden ammo. He dodges into the garage behind the van. I hotfoot after.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dunham dodge the grizzly's first swipe and leap onto its back. He clamps his arms around its neck. Frustrated snarls ensue.

Rounding the van while I was distracted, Seiversen attacks from the side. A many-toothed maw lunges toward my neck. Whirling into him, I instinctively tuck my head to block throat access. Then, I trip over my own feet and fall. _Wonderfully graceful_. The vampire doesn't miss a beat, however; he's on me.

On the way down, I manage to plant the silencer in his chest and pull the trigger. He explodes in a shower of ash. I may be klutzy, but at least I can act while it's happening. I rise, shake ash out of my hair, brushing off my clothes and spitting. I have to remember to keep my mouth shut when a vampire turns to ash on me. _Yuck!_

From the driveway, a man yells in pain. I run pell-mell to see Dunham rolling on the blacktop gripping his savaged forearm. A naked young woman sprawls beside him, passed out. Tiny's on all fours shaking his head. Seiversen's gone, so the glamour's broken.

I help Dunham to a sitting position. "So, one taste of your blood rips them out of their shape and their glamour both. That's so cool. How can I help?"

"I'll live. It's as cool as you having to bleed to set the bleeders on fire." His mouth's tight with pain. "Besides, I need to keep bleeding so we can dose the shapeshifters inside. There have to be more shapeshifters inside. So many vampires couldn't move around in daylight, else. Can we legally enter the house?"

Tiny moves to the unconscious girl, his eyes now clear. "Yes, we have probable cause."

Dunham huffs to his feet. "Do you mind bringing her, then?" He obviously can't lift her in his condition, so Tiny's the logical choice, despite my superior strength. My blood may still be needed inside as well, and I'm unglamourable.

Tiny hefts the young woman into a fireman's carry.

Dunham holds his injured arm above his heart to slow blood loss as he walks through the garage. With the other hand, he opens the back door.

I shoulder past him, both guns out. Amateur. It's dumb for an injured man to take point. Tiny's right behind me, one hand holding the girl, the other his gun.

I yell, " _Police_ " the same time Tiny yells, " _FBI_." We look at each other in bemusement. That's confusing as hell for everyone concerned. We'll have to work out that detail later. Somehow " _Task force_ " just doesn't have the same ring of authority.

A vampire races into sight from a hallway off the kitchen we enter through. She lunges at me. One easy shot to the heart, and she's ash.

"It pays not to empty a clip indiscriminately." I slant a glance at Dunham. He ignores me.

We advance through a great room, past a casual dining room table into a seating area bounded by a huge sectional and a couple of plush, overstuffed recliners. A fifty-inch flat-screen TV and entertainment center dominate the far wall. The decor is matte black, crimson and glass. Dark hardwood floors announce our progress into the house.

Tiny lays the young woman on the sectional and covers her with a nearby throw. I move up to the corner into the hall where the vampire came from. A quick pivot and I brandish of my gun at a formal dining room, bathroom and office. Empty. "Clear."

When I emerge from the hallway, Tiny is ready to ascend a carpeted staircase to the open concept second level. Dunham's on the sectional, uninjured hand gripping tightly below his mangled wound. Joining Tiny at the foot of the staircase, I follow his gaze up. Three little kids in pajamas peek through second floor dark wood balcony rails. Emaciated and pale. Approximate ages: eight, five and three, a boy, a girl and a boy. The littlest boy's lip quivers, and fat tears roll down his face.

A vampire blurs into view, crouching behind the toddler. "One step closer, and they're all dead," she hisses, her death's head visible over his thin shoulder.

Tiny fires. A hole appears in her forehead. She reels up and backward. My Browning coughs, and she's ash.

Dunham grumbles, "Nice work, mates. What if you'd missed?"

"I never miss," Tiny drawls.

I add, "Time spent on the range is rarely wasted." I'm grinning despite my school-marmish tone. It's obvious from Dunham's emptied clip (which landed only two heart shots) that he could use some target practice.

Dunham grumps, "Bugger that." I can't tell whether his tone is due to pique or pain. Maybe a bit of both. I point my gun up and climb the stairs.

By this time, all the kids are crying, their tiny faces contorted as they wail. "Go on downstairs to the nice man on the couch. We're gonna take you to your moms and dads real soon. Go on, go ahead." They all scuttle down the stairs, their fragile bodies trembling from fear and reaction. My heart's breaking, so I gather my cloud of calm and spread it over them. One sniff as they go by tells me they're all young shapeshifters. Outrage rises inside me. How could any caring being do this to a defenseless child? That right there tells me what vampires are. Horrifying, amoral parasites.

Tiny ascends behind me, gun beside his leg. "Dunham needs to do something with them. You clear these rooms while I guard him and the kids. Then, we'll find the basement."

I advance down a carpeted hallway and go through the rooms upstairs: several bedrooms, baths and a playroom for the kids. No more vampires there. I descend with blankets and the most worn toys from the kids' room and put them to work.

When I'm on guard, Tiny moves on into the downstairs bathroom. I watch as Dunham removes his finger from the young woman's mouth. He frowns and drags a finger through the still-oozing blood of his wound and inserts it into the toddler's mouth. The little boy slowly slumps over, asleep.

Ew. Barbaric, much? "What are you doing?" I ask.

Dunham repeats his action with the little girl. "They're traumatized. My blood makes them forget. And if the master vampire is still around, it frees them from enslavement." Dunham grins into our astonished faces and doses the eight-year-old. By this time, Dunham's wound is almost closed. He eases the collapsing child onto the sectional next to him.

Whoa. His blood properties have some serious implications for the shapeshifter community. Tiny returns with a damp washcloth, and Dunham wipes the kids' dirty tear-streaked faces.

Then the basement. That stairway's immediately off the door to the garage. I flip the light switch and descend first, my gun in a two-handed grip. We reach the bottom. We've both retrieved small flashlights from our pockets. I crack the door, sniff and nearly pass out. An unspeakable stench.

Tiny jerks back at the smell, muttering f-bombs as the door swings wide. We dart to either side. Nothing moves. Tiny's fumbling hand finds a light switch.

Waist-high cages line cinder block walls. Two bodies hang upside down from manacles, chains screwed into bare rafters. A rumpled four-poster bed with bloody white sheets, red velvet curtains and canopy crouches in one corner. Thankfully, it's empty. I move into the room. Check the two manacled bodies. No pulses, cold. Neither one is Ryan, thank God. The flesh over their carotid and femoral arteries looks like hamburger. Whip marks on their backs. Missing digits and nipples. Bite marks everywhere. A table with blood-encrusted implements squats between the hanging bodies. Blood is everywhere: drips, gouts, globs, splatters and dribbled lines. Vampires must obviously feed on more than blood. Human agony must add luster to their dining experiences. I have to work hard to keep my lunch.

Tiny finds a key ring next to the light switches. Eight total cages, two empty. The six forms in the cages are naked like the manacled ones. All sport bite marks and evidence of torture. Tiny opens cages on the left side of the room and tosses me the keys. I open the four on my side and check for pulses; two more are dead due to blood loss. The others are insensible. All humans. Even through the reek, I can tell a shapeshifter with an up-close sniff. Two green and bloated bodies sprawl dumped in a corner behind the last cage—shapeshifters, adults. My gorge rises into my throat again. Pity swamps me, but all I can do is close my eyes and turn away.

Ryan isn't here. Gratitude wars with horror. I've seen some grisly murder scenes, but this....

We exit and close the door behind us. Neither of us speaks as we climb the stairs. Dunham sits on the sectional, head back, eyes closed. Sweating and pale, Tiny reports what we found.

Dunham seems unsurprised but curses long and inventively at the news. In the meantime, Tiny heads for the downstairs bathroom. Dunham stops and sighs. Sounds of vomiting and the toilet flushing after float down the hall. At least he's a quiet puker. Both Dunham and I look a bit green.

Dunham requests, "I know you lot must report in, but if you would, please, neglect to tell the authorities about this young woman and the children. Returning them directly to their pack parents will be a mercy to all."

Tiny emerges in time to hear the end, leaning with closed eyes against the sectional. He wipes his forehead. Neither of us is in any mood to argue. Tiny reaches for his cell as I fumble for mine. As I find Kennedy's number, I notice my hand is trembling.

Turning my back when he picks up, I report to Kennedy what we've found. At first, there's a shocked silence. I hear him cover the receiver to stifle his reaction. Coming back on, he says hoarsely, "I'll coordinate with the FBI to get the appropriate discreet teams out there." He clears his throat. "I want to see the scene personally, DJ, so I can make a full report to the chief and the governor. They'll need the details on this to believe it. And I intend to take pictures. What's the address?"

I convey it. "Your most awful nightmares and worst murder scenes have nothing on this, sir," I warn him, suddenly feeling the strength leave my limbs. I sink down on a nearby dining room chair.

Gratitude floods me when Kennedy says nothing about the implications for Ryan. My mind is already conjuring enough horrific scenes on its own.

Next, I call Ramsey. He's ecstatic at the news of the young shapeshifters' rescue. We agree to meet adult pack members behind the Bureau's discreet facility on Randolph.

I'm parched so I snoop in the fridge, find bottled water and hand one to Dunham and one to Tiny who swaps me for the SUV keys. I take a water bottle for myself and jog over to where the SUV is parked, fire it up and pull it up into the vampires' driveway.

On the way over and back, my mind's screen plays Ryan's helpless body manacled to a ceiling or in a cage. Or on bloody white sheets. My mind chatters _Ohmigod Ryan, ohmigod Ryan, ohmigod Ryan._ My breath stutters along with my heartbeat as a panic attack threatens. Recognizing it for what it is, I begin to breathe deeply, long and slow.

Driving over those piles of ashes gives me some satisfaction, but not nearly enough.

I advise myself: _Breathe deeply. Envision a peaceful scene. In through the nose, out slowly through the mouth_. Over and over and over. In between, insanity shrieks and gibbers at my mind's edges. _God help us all stay sane through this_ , I pray.

Dunham, much recovered and his arm half-healed already, helps me load the kids and young woman into the SUV. Tiny agrees to hold the fort until crews arrive. I inform him that Lieutenant Kennedy is on his way with a camera. Tiny nods, his face rigid.

I climb behind the wheel and get us the hell out of there, continuing my deep breathing. Dunham sits quietly in the passenger seat.

"How many of those have you seen?" I ask after we're out of the neighborhood.

"More than I care to count."

"How do you stay sane?"

He looks over at me, blue eyes nearly glowing. "I remind myself that their victims deserve justice, and I mete it out."

Oh, yeeeee-aaaah. Jabbering madness fades as fear evolves into diamond-hard purpose.

"Are we the only ones who see them for what they are?" I ask.

"Gray-skinned skulls with fang-filled mouths and some hair?"

I nod.

"Most likely."

"Not even other shapeshifters?"

"No, they, like humans, see gorgeous, sexy beings. It's all part of vampires' glamour."

"How were we able to ash so many?"

"First, they didn't know we're unusual shapeshifters, unable to be glamoured or enslaved. On us, their blood has no effect, by the by. They also didn't expect our wooden ammunition." He pauses. "I'll have to get instructions for how to make it on your Yank shapeshifters' websites." He pulls out his cell phone. "I'll just forward the document to Patrick and Ramsey."

"They will definitely want it. It's incredibly effective."

"Just as silver bullets are on us."

"Scary thought."

"Right."

"Do we look or smell different to them?"

"Fortunately, no different from other shapeshifters. It's crucial we keep a low profile, though, because once they twig to our blood's special properties...."

"They'll be after us."

"Right."

Glorious thought. I'm certain vampires are resourceful and creative. That torture room definitely attests to their dark creativity. Shudder.

I take 94 west. The kids are still unconscious in the back. Dunham and I are both absorbed in our own thoughts until we hit Spaghetti Junction, where 35E and 94 intersect.

Dunham eyes me, opens his mouth, hesitates and then speaks. "Be very careful between now and your First Full Moon. New shapeshifters' bodies continue to change through that time. You won't have your full blessed shifter strength and speed until then. That makes you more vulnerable to vampires because they have all of theirs."

I swallow hard. "Thank you. I didn't know that."

"You'll need access to shapeshifter websites to educate yourself about such things. I can help with the international ones, but you'll need to apply to Ramsey and Patrick for access to the ones here in the States."

I nod my thanks and take the Randolph exit off 35E.

Dunham shifts in his seat. "How are you doing...about Agent Cathcart?"

I feel my eyebrows lower. "Not good. Trying to keep it together. Distractions help."

"Would you like me to distract you?"

Is that flirtation in his voice? If it is, I'm _so_ not there. "What do you have in mind?" My tone is cautious.

"Would you like to hear about how a strapping young English chap was declared a motor moron by any athletic organization he ever joined?"

I feel the corners of my mouth creep up. "Oh? Do I know this strapping English chap?"

Dunham's self-deprecating grin is the best thing I've seen all afternoon. "To start off, he's sports-mad, right? And rugby...."

He regales me with an improbable rugby story all the way through the intersection of Snelling and Randolph. Nobody can be that klutzy, not even me. I'm laughing as I park the SUV behind the nursing home. How I needed to laugh...

Immediately after I park, forms surround the SUV. I recognize Ramsey and Patrick, so I hit the unlock button. Instantly, the back doors are open. Gasps and sobs punctuate the silence as children are cradled, their hair and faces stroked by incredulous and grateful parental hands.

Ramsey's eyes light on the young woman in the very back seat. They widen. I turn in my seat as he leans in, pulling the intervening seat forward. He crawls in to release the seat belt from her slumped form, tips her head back, gently pushing long brown hair from her face.

"Cara?" His voice shakes. The light from his face is incandescent.

Her head rolls restively. She frowns. "Daddy?" Dazed green eyes open and fix on his face in the dim interior light. Their relief is nearly palpable. Wordlessly, Ramsey hauls her into his arms, shoulders shaking. After a few moments, he catches her up, blanket and all and extracts her from the SUV. He carries her to a nearby car where an older blond woman stands, her posture hopeful, and then joy transforms her. She bursts into tears, and the grateful family holds each other tight.

Sympathetic tears drip down my face. I glance over at Dunham.

His lips quirk under joyous eyes. "Remember how meting out justice keeps me sane? Reuniting families keeps me going."

"Without a doubt." I inhale the happiness in the air and feel it banish horror's still-clinging webs. _But_. Some families will be mourning their loved ones tonight, and Ryan is still in the vampires' claws. Purpose solidifies again.

Patrick knocks on my window and beckons us out. "Three teams sensed no honeysuckle scent around the houses they scouted. They're on their way to the next three sites as we speak."

Dunham's cell rings. He turns away to take it.

"News that you freed four young shapeshifters has gone viral throughout the community." Patrick's normally bland face glows. "Thanks to Dunham's email, everyone's making wooden bullets."

Dunham turns back, pocketing his cell. "The FBI wants us back at the Resident Agency. The scene in North Oaks with the number of body bags and ambulances has caused a stack of questions. Local police and the FBI are covering the truth with stories of serial killers and human trafficking. Lawson wants a full, in-person report."

I nod and say goodbye to Patrick. We climb into the SUV and head back to 5th street. Anxiety roils in my gut. I want to get to the next two houses in northeast Minneapolis before dark. It's nearly six-thirty now. Clouds pregnant with rain roll in from the west. The slight breeze has morphed into a persistent tree-lasher. I need to beat this rain if there's going to be any scent to pick up.

I hit the lights and sirens. We pull into the Resident Agency's lot, and I hand the SUV's keys to a surprised Dunham.

"If it rains, any scent traces of Ryan's will be washed away. I'm going to check two more addresses before dark. I'll call you after I'm done." I run for my car as Dunham protests, "But—"

I slam the car door, click the seatbelt and burn rubber as I hit the lights and sirens. The fact that I can shift into any cat that's scratched me gives me a lot of options, despite my incomplete attainment of blessed shapeshifter strength and speed. I've been a cat person all my life. In fact, my mom used to tell people about how as a toddler I used to cover up kittens' poop in the barnyard. So, my earliest scratches were from domestic short hairs, like my boys. The house cat is the most successful hunter and stalker in the world. I'll be borrowing that shape next.

As I'm barreling down I-94, I focus on coat colors to pre-empt budding panic at the thought of the rain and its consequences. Cody's black coat might stand out before true dark. Hmm, how about those solid gray cats like the Russian blues? Or a simple gray-and-black tabby like Raven's Emmy? Stripes might be good camouflage in the shadows.

I exit onto 280 driving far too fast, pulling up the northeast Minneapolis addresses on my cell just as it rings. It's Kennedy. My hearts drops. He's going to reel me back in, I just know it. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

All my life, I've played by the rules. As sheriff's kids, we had to be an example for the community. Responsibility, duty and loyalty came right after love, compassion and honesty in my family. Kennedy's always been a stand-up kind of boss, and I've always been straight with him.

With an inner lurch, I turn off my cell phone.

Something tells me that the spotlight is about to move off Ryan. The body count and the scene in that basement will mean some instant and forceful orders from the Powers That Be. An all-out attack on vampires' Twin Cities' residences? Would shapeshifters' scent identification coupled with the kidnapped and abused children and the basement in North Oaks be enough to obtain warrants? Which judge would they tap? Who would believe this? Whatever they decide, I won't sit around in a conference room while the higher ups wrangle about jurisdiction, strategy and resources—or figure out what hoops have to be jumped through before we can move.

_I'm_ not willing to sacrifice Ryan to due process and the greater good. He deserves better than that from the FBI—for which he's sacrificed so much, including time spent with me. Resentment flares.

He's my fiancé. We're building a life together. He'd challenge heaven for me, so I'll face hell for him. No questions asked.

I take the Hennepin-Larpenteur exit and turn left from Saint Paul into northeast Minneapolis. The first address is two blocks off Stinson behind a SuperTarget. Turning off the lights and sirens, I pull into the SuperTarget lot and arc around the building to park behind it. I jam the keys under my seat, open the door a crack and duck down to disrobe. The gray tabby it is. White light flashes

I snake my way out the door and scamper up the hill to the backyards beyond. My cat vision is enhanced in the low light. I skirt scraggly flower beds; unkempt daylily plantings offer great cover. I dart across the street to the block I need.

From behind, I hear, "A cat. Let's get it." As footsteps pound behind me, I go from a trot to an all-out run. A glance over my shoulder shows a bunch of adolescent boys. Why aren't they inside hammering on game controllers? Damn kids. Another glance over my shoulder—they're not giving up either.

I head for an alley. After putting some distance between me and my would-be tormentors, I dash into a gap in a neglected garage's door. It's time for a new form. Crystal, the old puma from my mom's sanctuary, is my muse.

My pursuers slam the garage doors open. I scream, fangs right in their faces. Four pairs of eyes widen as pants' fronts darken. In an instant, they're gone. Terrified yells float back to my ears as their footsteps retreat in the direction we came. The ten o'clock news will report a cougar sighting in northeast Minneapolis. No family dogs will be left outside tonight. Inward snicker.

A quick flash of white light, and the gray tabby trots out of the garage. Anyone watching from the outside would think this was comedy hour—kids pelting off screaming with an alley cat the apparent cause.

Okay, two more houses. That's the address on the garage there. A quick sniff around the detached garage yields typical garage scents. A wooden fenced-in yard doesn't deter me. I find a nice gap and squeeze under.

A patchy lawn with plenty of crabgrass greets me along with couple of overgrown arborvitae and raspberry bushes along the right-hand fence. I'll be avoiding those—cover or not—ouch, thorns. Even within the protected confines of the yard, wind still kicks up my fur. I scan the house; lights glow through the back window. Not good. I do a quick sniff up and around the walk to the house. Plenty of fresh vampire scent. Old blood drips here and there. Not Ryan's.

Suddenly, hands clamp around my sides, and I'm lifted.

"You're quite the interesting-smelling puss," an oily voice muses in my ear.

On instinct, I writhe, claw and bite. The taste of rotten blood. An oath. I'm dropped to the ground. I flee for the fence's gap and am almost through when my tail is seized. _Yeee-ouch_!

Another flash of white light. I'm a tail-less solid gray Manx, tearing back down the alley. The wind's in my face. Dammit, he'll smell me. The gate to the fenced yard crashes open behind me. Gotta get to cover. Two houses up, a compost pile inspires a quick dash before he catches sight of me. I huddle behind it, as the vampire blurs past. I vomit. No, not a hairball, thank you very much. A combination of the vamp's blood and the stench of compost. At least, the compost pile covers my scent and the smell of fresh bile.

After several tense moments, I slink across the house's back lawn to the front, crouching at the corner of the house. Check all directions. No vampire. I hunker low and circle around front. Keep under the huge hostas that line the front walk to the street. Under a parked car. Look and sniff in all directions. Slink across the street to another parked car and under it.

A quick skitter into the next yard. More daylilies—now officially my favorite flower—all along the side of the house. A quick skulk across the back lawn and into the weigela bushes along the back property line that faces the rear of the SuperTarget.

Down the hill is my car, driver's side door wide open. _Shit_. The vampire's inside, inspecting, smelling intently. F-bombs explode in my head. He closes the car door I intentionally left open a crack. Shit, now I'll have to stop and change to open it. He checks out the license plate and then leans against the front bumper, ankles and arms crossed. The picture of patience. I crouch under the bush, ears flat, growling and hissing, questioning his ancestry in my best cat-ese. He can't hear me over the wind.

Fifteen minutes, a half-hour, then an hour passes. I'm losing daylight. So much for getting to that other address before dark. Heavy rain drops splat an asymmetrical rhythm. The vampire looks up at the sky, grimaces. Thunder detonates, making me jump. Lightning reaches across the sky. It unabashedly pours. Soaked fur is incredibly itchy. No wonder cats get crabby when bathed. I hear the vampire swear resoundingly, and he streaks off. I wait a judicious five minutes. Run flat out to the car. White flash as I change. Yank the car door open, leap in, slam it behind and hit the locks.

The vampire slams into the driver's side door. _Shit_. Where the hell did he come from? Frantically, I fish under the seat for the keys. My hair is all over my face. The safety glass on the window creaks under the vampire's pummeling fists. Ripping my hair back, I jam the keys into the ignition. Stomp the gas pedal. The car fishtails out, the vampire clinging to the side of the car.

He's not letting go. He's not giving up.

One-handed, I scrabble through my clothes on the passenger seat. Come up with my Browning, silencer still attached. I hit the brakes, steering into an intentional skid. The vampire's feet first fly off the ground. Then he caroms off the car when it stops and sprawls on the ground. I lower the window four inches. He's on his feet, chin-length black hair clinging to his handsome Hispanic face. Leaps toward the open window. I pull the trigger.

He's a pile of soggy ash on the ground.

_Holy. Shit._ I'm panting, heart palpitating, shaking all over.

I look over on the passenger side floor. He'd ransacked my bag. Thankfully, my ID and badge were buried on the seat with my clothes. _DJ, you're an idiot._

If he'd gotten my license plate run, he could have found out my name and address. I'd no longer be anonymous to them nor my home safe—if Ryan hasn't already spilled all that. Then with some further research, he'd have gotten my family's whereabouts. With vampires' ability to glamour, I've no doubt they'd have found a way to me. There's got to be money and power behind all these residences. With that comes clout and access. I pound my forehead on the steering wheel. Major lesson of the day: _don't take your personal vehicle on vampire stalk-abouts_.

I drive off, naked, under the cover of rain, go a couple of miles, find a side street with a big willow tree, park under it and re-don my clothes. They stick to my still-damp skin. And then the holsters. Even though it's awkward to put them on in the car, I'm grateful to have the weight of both guns on my person again. Before re-holstering the Browning, I check the clip. As I thought, getting low. I eject it and slide in another. I shrug on my now well-creased jacket.

Another thought occurs: the vampire had access to a shapeshifter because he was up before sunset and outside for so long.

And another thought: I'd seen his face. His whole face. A human face. Not a death's head. What's that about?

Then I recall the taste of rotten blood. I'd bitten him.

## Chapter 7

Before I do anything else—even answer the mystery of why I could see that vampire's face—I have to find Ryan. Yeah, I know it's stupid to do it alone with cloud cover like this and in my own car and while I'm understrength as a new blessed shifter. _But_. Do I really have any choice? Tiny and Dunham are busy being FBI flunkies, and it's too dangerous for everyone else I know. I think wistfully of Jordy and how well we've always worked together. Nope. Not doing that to him. Not introducing him to my crazy new supernatural world. He deserves a better future.

I'm going to head over to the other house in northeast Minneapolis. Yes, it's wet. Yes, it'll be hard to get a scent, but only if I stay outside. There may be opportunities to get inside a garage or a sheltered back porch that's dry despite the rain. Even if just the doorstep is dry, I might be able to get a scent off that. I have to at least check it out. For Ryan's sake.

Guilt also assails me at ignoring the boss's call, so I turn my phone on but resolutely refuse to check for voice mail messages. Then, I put the address in the GPS, and I'm off. The address isn't all that far away. Hmm. I wonder why they have two houses so close together. After about ten minutes of driving and peering through the rain-spattered car window at house numbers, I find it. A tall, run-down white three story clapboard with black shutters. The shrubbery is kind of overgrown around the foundation. It looks like it might have been an old farmhouse in earlier days. Lights are on in the lower story windows, but the curtains are closed. No peeping Thomasina possibilities, dang it.

The double garage is detached and faces the street at a ninety degree angle from the house. One of the garage doors is missing a lower right corner. In my tabby form, I might be able to squeeze through that. I eye it dubiously. I'm going to get wet again. _Gree-aat_.

I drive around the block. On the way back around, I spot a house with a For Sale sign in front. No lights. The yard needs mowing. Could be abandoned. I pull into the alley on the other side of the block from the vampires' house, turn off headlights, find the For Sale house's driveway and park. No lights on in the back either. I step out of the car and peer in the garage window. It's completely empty. I check the garage's separate entry door—locked—and get back in the car.

Last time, leaving the car unlocked wasn't such a great idea. So, this time I'll lock it, but what do I do with the keys in cat guise so I can get back in? The weeds next to the garage catch my eye. That'll have to do. I pull the keys from the ignition and put them on the passenger seat.

I strip off and open the car door a smidge. A white flash, and I'm the tabby. With the key ring in my mouth, I snake out the door, put my front paws on the door and give it a mighty shove. The door eases a few inches inward, and the lock engages with a faint click. I drop the keys in the weeds. Now, reconnaissance.

Big rain drops slash at my eyes as I trot down the alley. It's really coming down. That's good news for me. Not many people will be out in this unless they have to be. Through the soggy brush I sidle up to the side of my target garage and peer around the front. Nobody's about. The missing section of the garage door is right next to my nose—and it's gonna be a tight squeeze. I make myself tiny and shove through. _Yee-ouch!_ Lost a little fur there, I think.

Inside the shadowy garage, I shake myself. Two vehicles. The one closest to me is an older model Chevy Impala that's seen better days. A good sniff-over tells me it's been used by vampires recently. No human smells.

I trot across in front of the Impala to look the second one over. The white Mercedes SUV! Score! I sniff it over excitedly. There's Ryan's scent, and several vampires'. I go to the driver's side door to sniff over and over. The driver's the one who grabbed Ryan. I memorize his scent.

A male voice comes into earshot from outside the garage. I ease under the white SUV.

"...hafta get rid of the Mercedes. Vance used it last night to nab an FBI agent. I switched the plates after he turned it over to me, but it's still a very visible car."

I dart under the Impala and skitter over next to the back tire closest to the gap in the garage door. The other garage door rolls open.

The voice continues, louder now, "Best to get it over with while it's raining hard. That chop shop off Broadway said they'd take it. Then we can grab a bite." Two pairs of workmen's boots advance into the garage. Both sets stop right beside the SUV's doors on opposite sides.

"Do you smell something alive in here?" It's a different voice from the first. Male, a deeper voice. They both have that oily edge. Wet vampires really stink.

"Yeah, and it's not a mouse. Did some stray cat get in here?"

"A stray something...." The feet start to pivot.

I dash for the gap. Ram myself through. Zip around the corner of the garage through the brush and around the back of the garage. The pouring rain is great cover because it churns the high weeds and grass.

One vampire blurs past down the alley. I crouch low. The other one's footsteps race diagonally across the back yard and next to the side of the house.

I run for it, making for the next back yard. No fenced in yards here. A clump of daylilies lines the yard side of the neighbor's garage. I'm there. Crouch. Wait. I sing to myself, "No one notices a little cat. No one notices a little cat" and project a new little cloud—a "Don't see me" cloud—around myself. Here's hoping it works.

Scent-wise, the rain is both a curse and a blessing. I can't smell them coming, but they can't follow my scent trail because wet foliage won't hold it. I peer out between the leaves at my target garage. The one who ran across the yard is coming back. He's holding up both arms toward the other vampire, signaling "Nothing."

Both of them come around opposite sides of their garage, flailing at the brush and weeds. That's my cue. Under the daylilies' cover, I lunge across to the next yard. Bushes. Peer behind me. They're now in back of the garage, pawing through the untrimmed growth. Thank God for slovenly homeowners. I'm still internally singing my cover song, "No one notices a little cat. No one notices a little cat." I'm off to the next yard...and the next.

Now, five houses over, I retrieve my keys and scoot under my car, a newer Toyota Matrix, navy blue. Wait. Listen. Nothing. I emerge next to the driver's side door. White flash. Unlock, open, jump in, shut the door and hit the locks. Through the rearview mirror, I see headlights coming down the alley. Crouch down in the seat, peering under the headrest out the back window. The white Mercedes rolls unhurriedly into sight. Then, past. The red glow of its tail lights slowly fade away.

My cell phone rings. I jump a foot. It's Kennedy again. Guilt licks over me as I push the button to send it to voicemail and turn it off.

I look up in time to see one of the vampires stroll into sight in the yard I exited last. He's examining the bushes. I slide between the seats into the back, trying not to thrash around too much. The car doesn't need to be jouncing around from my movements. Thankfully, the back seats are down, and I haven't cleaned my winter safety stash out of the back. I pull a thick, old quilt over myself and shift into a cat again.

Breathing deeply and slowly, I visualize the "Don't see me" cloud and push it out to surround the car. There's nothing important here, just someone's stuff. The rain drums on the car. Over it, I hear footsteps grit onto the cement slab of the driveway. They advance to the car's driver side. Under the edge of the quilt, I see a flashlight's beam sweep the car's interior.

I wrack my brain. Are my clothes strung all over? Where did I leave the keys? My badge? Is my cell phone in plain sight? The doors are locked. Would he break in if things looked suspicious enough?

The car rocks. He's pulled hard on the door handle. Boot heels grate on the cement toward the back of the car. A hard yank at the trunk. I hear a car stop in the alley behind mine. Boots walk over to it. Their voices are muffled by the car and the rain. Ears flat, I slip from under the quilt to peer out the back window. The second vampire opens the white Mercedes' passenger door and clambers in. It drives off.

_Holy. Shit._ That was too close. I can't take much more of this. Shaking, I climb back into the front seat, shift, swarm into my clothes, and find my car keys between the seat and the console. I turn the key in the ignition and get the hell out of there. Sweat pours freely.

Once out of the side streets, I head toward Saint Paul. Okay, so Ryan isn't where the Mercedes is. Then, where is he? How can I find out for sure? I turn on my cell and call Raven.

"Hey, Deej. How're things going?"

"Are you home?"

"I'm doing fine, thanks for asking." Her voice is light but pointed.

"Sorry, life's really intense right now. I need another favor. Are you home?"

She sighs. "No, I just got off work, and I'm heading that way now."

I hear my voice, entreating. "I know you're tired, but Ryan was kidnapped last night and is in terrible danger. Would you douse his location for me again?"

I hear her shocked gasp. "Of course, I will. You don't even have to ask. Get your butt over here, and we'll play 'Where's Ryan?'" One of our favorite kids' games had been "Where's Waldo?"

"I'll fill you in on everything when I get there, 'kay?"

"Sure, no problem. When's the last time you ate?"

"I don't remember."

"I'll order Chinese delivery for us. Your usual?"

"Yeah. Thanks so much for this. I owe you."

"No, you don't. That's what friends are for." We disconnect.

My cell rings immediately. I check the number. It's Dunham.

"What's happening, Dunham?"

"Blokes wafflin' with their thumbs up their arses. Gormless wankers." Dunham's disgust is plain in his tone and colloquial usage. "Where are you?"

"In Minneapolis, heading back to Saint Paul."

"You'd better make your way here. There's a bloody flap about your being unsupervised."

I snort. "At least I'm doing something. They've got bigger problems than me being on the loose. I found another house with a possible shapeshifter kidnapping victim." I'll save the news about the white Mercedes until I see them.

"That'll perk these chaps right up." Dry as desert. Yeah, I'm sure the pack's needs are front and center there in the Resident Agency.

"Is Patrick there?" Neither of us bothered to mention that Ramsey was home with his rescued daughter. It's obvious that Ramsey's right where he needs to be.

"No. He rang to report that his teams scouted three more houses and found no trace of Ryan."

I swore. "And now, it's raining. Any scent trace will be washed away." I pause, deciding how much to tell him. He's still a somewhat unknown quantity. "I'm going to a friend's house. She's going to douse for Ryan's location."

"A douser, eh? My ol' granny used to do that."

"You'll have to tell me about your psychic gifts some time. After I get Ryan's direction, I'm going to the squad and check out a car." I explain what happened off Stinson.

"Blimey. You got off easy."

"Tell me about it. What does it mean that I was able to see his human face after tasting his blood? Does it only work with him or will all vampires look human to me from now on? Why didn't the same thing happen last night at the airport?"

He muses, "That happened to me once. It wore off when he was ash." Another little silence. "And why it didn't happen at the airport? It was your first shift. Your body was already overloaded with strangeness and magic. You'd never tasted a vampire's blood before. Now, since you have, the effects are a bit different."

I'm relieved. I really appreciate being able to identify those bastards at a glance. "Thanks. I'd better go."

"Why don't you ring me after the douse and you get your new ride? You'll need backup for whatever you're planning."

I hesitate. "I don't really know what I'm going to do yet. And, I don't want to interfere with your contract with the FBI."

He laughs. "These blokes wouldn't notice if I went starkers. I gave them all the lore I know. Now, they have to suss what to do with it. They'll be at it all night. Ring me when you're here, and I'll come down."

"Thanks, I'll do that. It may be an hour or so. If you see Kennedy, would you update him on what I've done? I don't want to call him. This way he has deniability about my whereabouts. Besides, maybe he'll approve your supervising me and calm the waters about that."

"Right. Cheerio." We disconnect.

How nice of him to offer to help out. But, then I'd be willing to do anything to get out of a roomful of suits arguing jurisdiction, politics and procedure, too. I get the feeling Dunham and I are cut from similar cloth.

I call the squad to reserve a car. Not long after, Jordy calls me. He must've had the desk sergeant on alert for me.

"Jess, I hear you've gone AWOL again." He's teasing.

I smile. "Jordy, you know that's a fabrication of some fevered brain."

He laughs, "Yeah, yours." I laugh too.

"Something big exploded tonight, and it's the highest priority now. I'm not willing to let Ryan fall through the cracks, so I'm investigating solo for now. Dunham said he'd come with me tonight though."

"Is Dunham the tall blond guy?"

"Yeah."

"Who is he?"

"He's the Interpol expert Ryan and his partner picked up at the airport last night." Jeesh, was it only last night? Eons have passed since then.

"Oh, yeah? Do you think the kidnappers were after him and got Cathcart by mistake?"

"Hard to say, Jordy."

A pause. "Listen, I'm going over to the Blues Saloon with a couple of the others tonight. If you can break away or need to blow off some steam, stop by, okay?"

That's so far from where my mind's at right now...."Thanks, Jordy, for thinking of me. But this thing's twenty-four/seven for me until I get Ryan back."

"Of course. I understand." Another pause. "Well, just thought I'd let you know there's an APB out on you."

"Seriously?"

"Naw, just yankin' your chain."

"Ass."

"You love me anyway." I can almost see the smirk. "Later, partner."

"Later."

I pull into Raven's driveway a few minutes later and pause to yank a brush through my still damp hair before I knock on the door. She lets me in with a hug. Her blue eyes are tired, and her short brown hair's mussed from pulling on her tee shirt.

"I'm so sorry to hear about Ryan. How much can you tell me?" She leads me into the basement. I'm in deep envy of her comfy pink knit capris and bunny slippers.

"Not much really. It's pretty scary and intense like I said, Rave." I tell her what I can while she's spreading out her huge map of the metro area on the gray painted concrete floor. It's easily eight by ten feet.

She points at the bag of Chinese food and some cans of pop. I help myself. She's already eaten. I settle onto an ancient orange beanbag chair. Her cats Emmy, a gray tabby, and Polly, a gray, white and orange calico, come to inspect me and my food. As I fend them off with pets and sweet nothings, Raven does her preparation.

Cashew chicken. I'm in heaven. Crunchy peapods and water chestnuts. Yum.

"Do you still have some of his hair from last night?"

"Yep."

I leave her to it and consume my meal.

When she's ready, she steps to the southern edge of the map and swings the pendulum in an almost perpendicular circle. It whips around and around and comes back to circle almost at her feet.

"He's in Burnsville." She quirks an eyebrow at me.

"That's unusual. I don't think any of the other addresses are in the southern metro. Maybe one in Edina."

"Let me see if I can narrow it down a little."

Raven goes to an old dark buffet set against the mustard yellow-painted cinder block wall. She rustles around in the broad top drawer, pulls out another map and spreads it on the floor, too. This one is just of Burnsville.

Again, she plies the pendulum, her face a picture of concentration. The pendulum swings and then slows to smaller circles. Finally, the chain quivers as the pendulum executes tiny circles over an area.

"Valley High Road and Woodland Drive, east of Garfield Avenue."

I come and look over her shoulder. "That's a pretty big area, but I trust my nose. Do you know if it rained down there tonight?"

"No, I don't."

I shrug. "I'll check it out online."

I slip her some cash for dinner. She slaps at my hand, then takes the money and slings an arm around my neck.

We climb the stairs together, the cats racing to beat us to the top. She hugs me once more, saying, "Be smart and be safe, DJ. Trust the Universe. Everything will turn out the way it needs to."

I thank her and leave. As I get in the car and crank the engine over, I'm feeling grim. I don't know as I trust the universe. So, I'm gonna do everything I can to stack the deck in Ryan's favor.

I swing by the station house, sign for the car and go out to the back lot. It's a late model gray unmarked Dodge Charger 360 with a V8 engine. I like these cars, and the V8 is sweet. I fire it up. Nice sound. Beats the heck out of my demure Matrix, but, then there's the gas mileage thing. In about ten minutes, I'm turning into the lot on 5th street and calling Dunham. By this time, it's completely dark. Night maneuvers when vampires' powers are at their height? I don't think so. I'm too flat-out scared to beard them directly after last night's pummeling...and according to Dunham, not yet strong or fast enough.

Kennedy answers the phone. Crap.

"DJ, please come up. I need to talk with you face-to-face about some things."

I stifle my sigh. "Okay, sir. I'll be right in." There's a parking spot not far from the door. I grab it.

I get out of the car, sling my bag over my shoulder and start toward the door. A low growl stops me in my tracks. Slowly, I turn toward the sound. A large body emerges from the brush at the back of the parking lot and steps into the security light's beams. A familiar Bengal tiger. Kemp.

I feel my upper lip curl into a sneer. "Ah, my favorite ass-wipe." If I weren't fully dressed, I'd change into a Siberian tiger and kick his ass, but I'll be damned if I'll let him see me naked. Slimy bastard. "Why are you here?"

Kemp grunts and moans, contorting as he changes. Finally, he straightens up, thankfully behind a nearby car so I'm not subjected to his unlovely human form...again.

"Jes' wanted to remind ya that I'm ready for you, sweetheart. You'll be my own true love and bear my cubs."

"You keep dreaming, Kemp."

"Oh, no, it's no dream, my love. In fact, I brought my friends to help bring you home." Three vampires step into view from the brush and surrounding cars. Backlit, they're nothing more than menacing silhouettes.

_Sonuvabitch_.

"You scum balls are mighty brazen to try kidnapping me right outside the FBI Resident Agency." I slide my hand under my jacket for the Browning.

One of them snorts derisively. "They're just human cattle, little more than walking blood bags. They can't really hurt us, not at night."

"You just keep thinking that, genius. You'll soon discover different. And _I'm_ not human, not anymore." The Browning's unholstered now, being held at my waist band.

Another of the vampires moves toward me. "Your bullets can't harm us, Detective." I can tell by his voice that he's smiling. "Come along now, this doesn't have to be unpleasant."

"Keep your distance. My mamma taught me all about 'stranger danger.'"

They snicker. Always glad to amuse.

I whip up the gun and get off a heart-shot before he's on me. Ash patters down. I'm backing away and trip over a bush, arms waving wildly as I fall.

Graceful as usual. _Dammit_.

Laughing, a vampire lands on top of me. He seizes my splayed arms, lunges for my throat and bites.

I plunge away from the fire that instantly consumes his face. He screams and rolls off me but only spreads the fire further over himself. I struggle to my feet, pushing hair out of my face.

The last vampire stops a few cautious yards away, then, circles me warily. Somehow, I lost my gun in the fall. Kemp, now in a pair of sagging sweatpants, flanks my other side. They're between me and the door. Blood drips down my neck.

Distracted by Kemp's arrival, I miss the vampire's charge. Instinctively, I throw up an arm to protect my throat. He tackles me, his teeth ripping into my forearm. We scream in pain at the same time. Fire erupts from his mouth. He covers his mouth with his hands and shrieks as the fire eats into him.

I crawl backward on my elbows to escape his paroxysms. I'm gathering my feet under me when the building's door opens. It's Tiny with a gun. Kemp turns to run.

Tiny orders, "Freeze!" The gun barks as I lunge, catching Kemp's ankle. He falls on his face.

We're _all_ graceful here in the FBI's parking lot.

Tiny strides over, flips Kemp onto his back and cuffs his hands in front of him to spare his injured shoulder. He's nicer than I'd've been. I'd have given that arm a good wrench. But then, Tiny doesn't have the history with Kemp that I have.

I'm regaining my feet as Tiny frog-marches Kemp to the door.

Tiny smirks, "You look like shit, detective."

Paybacks are a _bitch_.

My hair's frizzy from being rained on and flops all over my face. It's sticking to the blood on my neck. My pants are gashed at both knees, jacket's ripped up and covered with blood; mud and wet leaves decorate my once stylish ensemble. Plus the bush snagged it all to hell. I retrieve my gun from behind my brushy nemesis, find my bag and follow Tiny in.

"You don't look so hot yourself." His eyes are deeply bloodshot, and five o'clock shadow has progressed to stubble. His khaki suit is deeply creased at the top of the thighs and in the back.

"Saved _your_ ass," he grunts, shoving Kemp into the lobby.

" _Bullshit_ ," I snarl, following them to the elevator and punching the button. "I had all three vampires down before you opened that door."

"Looks like two of them had _you_ down," he glances over, grinning. The elevator dings.

"What?" I'm pissed. "You stood there and watched them attack me and didn't do a thing?" The elevator doors open.

"I just wanted to see how well you handle yourself, Detective." He offers smugly, hand in the middle of Kemp's back to push him into the elevator. "You're downright clumsy," Tiny continues, conversationally. "How'd you ever pass the physical agility tests?"

I punch the six button. "With flying colors, thank you. _And_ I have a couple of black belts."

"Yeah, I could see all that martial arts training in the flailing and sprawling." He snickers, still looking way too satisfied. The elevator doors open on the sixth floor. He guides Kemp off.

"They caught me off guard." Following, I surreptitiously rub the hip I'd fallen on twice. I must have a doozy of a bruise.

"The bushes?" He laughs uproariously as he marches Kemp into our reserved conference room. "Rii-iiight." By that time, I'm limping as bruises bloom and muscles stiffen.

Kennedy, Dunham and Lawson await us in the conference room. Dead coffee cups and empty pop cans compete with sandwich wrappers and potato chip bags for space on the table. Nobody looks terribly debonair at the moment, but I'm sure I have them all beat. It's been a long damned day.

Kennedy observes drily, "Nice to see you two getting along so well." I roll my eyes and drop into the closest chair. He leans over to a dorm-room-sized refrigerator that wasn't there earlier and hands me a bottle of water.

"Thank you, sir." I rip the cap off and chug half of it and then take a deep breath, "Gentlemen, this is Edward Francis Kemp. He is the perpetrator, who, in Bengal tiger form, intentionally attacked and bit me last night to turn me into a shapeshifter. I'd like to charge him with assault with intent to commit great bodily harm. That little brawl downstairs was attempted kidnapping."

Kemp is holding his shoulder where Tiny's bullet took him. As we watch, the lead slug works its way out of the wound and _tinks_ onto the table.

"That's how effective standard ammunition is against a shapeshifter," Dunham states wryly.

Kennedy and Lawson both nod. Tiny offers, "If you want to see vampires in action, I can get the security footage taken of the fight in the parking lot."

"That's quite all right, SSA Smith," Lawson replies. We witnessed it from the window."

_All_ of them stood around watching as three vampires attacked me?? I look at Kennedy, who is examining his phone. Dunham tilts his head sheepishly at Lawson. Asshole. He told them to let me handle it and sent Tiny down "just in case." And, Dunham, who knows vampires and their abilities better than any of them, let them do it. Thanks, Mr. Supernatural Expert.

Lawson tips his head at the door, eyes on Tiny, telling him to remove Kemp from the room. Tiny hauls Kemp up and pushes him out the door. Dunham follows, closing it behind him.

I turn to address Lawson. "Nice to know you had such faith in me." Sarcasm drips.

"After Mr. Dunham reported your run-in with the vampire off Stinson, we were concerned for your safety," Lawson states, eyes wide. Rii-iiight.

"And letting me face three of them and a shapeshifting tiger _alone_ proves that how?"

Kennedy slants Lawson a sardonic look and leans toward me across the table. "DJ. You're the only one like you. As we just saw, you can handle a lot, but you're not immortal, and clips run out."

"You assured me that you wouldn't be a loose cannon, Detective." Lawson drawls, eyes steely. "Yet, you went all over the cities this afternoon and evening unsupervised. How would you describe your behaviors today?"

"Focused on rescuing an FBI agent in mortal jeopardy. Innovative, self-motivated, persistent." My eye contact could cut diamonds. "And self-controlled."

"Or willful, stubborn, and insubordinate," Lawson counters, his eyes traveling over my face and upper body.

I've had it. "While you were sitting here hashing out inter-agency politics and arguing about who needs to know what and who doesn't, I scouted out two more vampire nests. Identified the first as harboring at least one shapeshifter victim. Found no trace of Agent Cathcart there. Ashed a vampire who pursued me from that residence. At the second, I found the white Mercedes used to kidnap Ryan last night. Ascertained that it was stored in a place different from his current location. Last, I aided in the arrest of the felon who attacked me last night."

Kennedy steps in smoothly, "We also saw her defeat three vampires single-handedly." Tiny and Dunham re-enter the room and sit down. Kennedy eyes them pointedly and continues. "When Detective Jesseray was deemed fit to continue in her current role this morning, there was no mention that 'supervision' meant that someone had to be physically with her at all times. To iterate, _I'm_ her supervisor. I've never breathed down her neck before, and I don't intend to start now."

Lawson sniffs. "It's obvious our management styles are very different."

"Very," Kennedy spears him with icy eyes. The room's atmosphere is cold-molasses thick.

"I uncovered Ryan's most recent location," I interject, finally getting a word in.

Tiny sits forward. "You found Agent Cathcart's whereabouts?"

I'm suddenly the center of attention.

"How?" Lawson demands.

"I have my methods," I declare.

Kennedy arcs a reproving eyebrow at me. I shrug. I'm not telling them about Raven and her abilities. Lawson's not on _my_ need-to-know list.

I get up and move to the city map and pick up a dot sticker. Stick it right smack dab in the middle of Valley High Road and Woodland Drive, east of Garfield Avenue in Burnsville. I sit back down and finish my water.

Kennedy, Lawson, and Tiny all talk excitedly. I catch Dunham eyeing me steadily. I wonder what's going on behind those rayed blue eyes.

I raise both hands and begin. "Gentlemen. Oddly, as willful, stubborn and insubordinate as I am--" Lawson doesn't even turn a hair. "–even _I_ realize it's far too dangerous to attempt a frontal assault on an unknown vampire nest at night. I'm going to Burnsville just after dawn tomorrow and sniff around until I find the nest. Then we can take it out. What strategies did you work out today for doing that?"

As they fill me in at length, my eyes begin to cross, and I start to yawn. Kennedy's wise eyes assess me. He knows I've hit the wall.

Kennedy interjects, "How about we save the details for tomorrow? I've requisitioned a UPS van and SWAT gear. Patrick reports that several of his shapeshifters are willing to help storm the vampires' castles, so we'll deputize them and start with the Burnsville nest first. He's said they'll bring wooden ammunition, and I've approached St. Paul's Cathedral for a supply of holy water. You can make splat balls on the way down. I'll call Patrick in a few minutes to let him know to meet us at the Hamline Avenue station at six o'clock tomorrow morning. Warrants should be waiting on my desk at the station."

He turns to me. "DJ, I want you to take both SSA Smith and Mr. Dunham home with you tonight." Eyebrows raise all over the room. "You haven't had time to vampire-proof your home, and we need you safe. Dunham and Smith already have their overnight bags packed and ready. They can help you vampire-proof your house and then bed down for the night there. You have space?"

I nod. "Yeah, upstairs with blow-up mattresses and camp cots." Hope they don't mind doubling up. One bathroom between the three of us, and it's without a working door. Thank you, Tiny.

My eyes narrow. "Smith, you still owe me a bathroom door." Tiny has the grace to look abashed. (Thank goodness, there's an exhaust fan in the bathroom.)

We adjourn. Everyone gathers up his stuff. With my manly escort, I march out to the Charger. Dunham makes a move toward its passenger door, sees my minatory glare and swerves off toward Tiny and the ubiquitous black SUV. They follow me home.

I don't know how to feel about Dunham now—ratting me out to Kennedy and Lawson, letting me face Kemp and his vampire cronies alone. I was beginning to think he was all right. Now, it's up in the air again. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

It occurs to me that, for the first time in my life, I'm going home with two large virile men....and I'm not sure I like either one of them very much. Hardly an ideal _ménage a trois_.

I'm disappointed and discouraged. Disappointed that there's no magical army that can find and storm the vampire's lair in Burnsville tonight and rescue Ryan. Yeah, I know it sounds melodramatic and unrealistic, and, I'm tired and not terribly rational at the moment. I'm also tired of being on the firing line physically and mentally. I'm ready for a knight in shining armor to come swooping in and take care of all this for me. In fact, I was kind of hoping that Dunham was going to be that guy. _But_. No knight in shining armor stands back to see if you're going to get your butt kicked, _and_ he didn't even stand on the other side of the door with the gun. It was Tiny, who had standard ammo. He's also imminently glamour-able. We'd already seen that once today. What real help was _he_ supposed to be to me if I got in real trouble?

But, is it fair for me to expect Dunham to buck Lawson? Probably not. He's reporting to him, after all.

Maybe I'm just not used to flying solo. I guess I'm spoiled by having the constant back-up of the MSP police department and a kick-ass partner like Jordy Burke. Granted, the fact that my blood sets vampires on fire makes me pretty ....what's that fancy word? Puissant. (No, that's not French for "piss-ant." Yeah, I know it looks like it, but, it means "powerful.") I'm used to being competent with a wicked nose and a cloud of calm tucked up my sleeve _with backup_. _But_. I _never_ expected to be fighting vampires one-on-one. It takes some getting used to.

If I'd had thoughts like this two days ago, I'd've committed myself to the nearest psych ward. This time yesterday, I didn't even know they existed. Am I feeling overwhelmed? Yeah. No doubt about it.

Maybe what Dunham, Kennedy and Lawson had really wanted to see was how my blood and wooden ammo would stand up to an all-out assault when vampires had no idea what they really faced. (And they _had_ been at a window overlooking the parking lot. They _could_ have opened fire with wooden rounds if I'd gotten into real trouble.) So far, the advantage has been all mine. I have the feeling it isn't going to be a surprise much longer, and there'll be some silver bullets flying.

I'm glad that Kennedy is arranging for SWAT gear, splat guns and wooden ammo for our support troops tomorrow, though. I really don't want to see a mini-Afghanistan in a southern metro suburb.

I pull the Charger into the back driveway, the SUV wheeling right in after it. I pop out of the car to clear the way for Dunham and quick-jog up the walk, unlock the door, slide in, plop my stuff down, throw out some treats for the kitty-kids and beeline for my room.

The guys clomp in the back door. I undress in a rush, yelling. "Come on in and make yourselves at home. Towels and wash cloths are in the linen closet in the hall. Cots, air mattresses, blow-up engines, sheets, pillows and blankets are all in the walk-in closet upstairs. I'm going to shift and take a quick look-see around the neighborhood."

I shift into a bobcat. They're bigger than a domestic house cat and mine's bigger than a normal bobcat. Big enough to face down most of the neighborhood dogs, small enough and a great spotted coat to take advantage of the shadows, shrubbery and flowerbeds. I trot back down the hall and through the dining room where the guys stand aside and follow me with their eyes.

Dunham trails me through the kitchen to the back door, asking, "You can't wait for backup?"

_Now_ , _he asks me??_ Besides, I've never seen him shift; I don't know for sure what he is. Whatever it is, it's an apex predator; my nose tells me that. One big wild animal sighting in the Twin Cities a night is enough, thank you. I paw at the door.

He opens it, sighing, "So much for keeping you safe." Then he calls softly, "I'll change in a few minutes and wait for you in the back yard."

What good will _that_ do? I wonder scathingly. Well, I suppose he could hear me yowl and come running if anything happens. Mental sigh at my own nasty attitude.

_DJ, get a grip. Just be happy to be in territory you're familiar with._ First, I slink around the foundation. No foreign scents. Good. I ramble off down the alley. The neighbors' dogs get excited. I give them a feline flip-off, a contemptuous hiss and a view of my backside. The rain washed away all scent from last night's patrolling werewolves. I scout the blocks in every direction around my house and stop at the northwest corner of the block behind my house where I sniff carefully in all directions. Faintly, to the north and west is something odd. I trot west a few more blocks. There. That's what I smelled.

I turn tail and sprint back home. Rounding the garage from the alley, my back claws scrape on the pavement for purchase. Then I snake my way through the narrowly open back gate, racing for the back door. Behind me comes a warning growl. A great body shifts and rises. Halfway up the back steps, I turn.

An enormous white male lion stalks out of the shadows. _Holy. Shit_. Every hair on my body stands at attention. I feel my bladder start to give way. Nope. _So_ not doing that. Tiny would never let me live it down. Instinct has me pawing frantically at the door. Tiny opens it. I'm in my bedroom seconds later.

I hear Tiny say drily, "I'd say you gave the detective a little scare."

Dunham replies, "Better me than what I smelled in the back corner of her yard."

## Chapter 8

I pull on a robe and am back in the dining room in two movements. There, in all of his six foot four inches of naked glory, is Dunham...and is he— _wow_. I beat a hasty retreat to the hallway. My face is so red, it's almost reflecting off the wall.

Dunham opens the door to the upstairs and closes it part-way since it blocks the hallway. He calls behind as he ascends, "We shapeshifters aren't terribly modest, detective. We're all starkers before and after each change, after all."

"Yeah, well, I'm a little new to this," I call from behind the door, my voice a little thin, and close it all the way.

Tiny sports a smirk. _Jerk_.

I clear my throat. "Did you find everything okay – towels, sheets...?"

Tiny, still amused, assumes his best manners. "Why, of course, detective. Your instructions were very thorough."

My face is still a healthy pink; I can feel it. "Since, we're all working together in such close quarters, we could probably dispense with the formalities. Call me DJ."

"You could keep calling me Tiny. Nearly every guy _is_ in comparison to Dunham." He waggles his eyebrows.

Again, my face is hot enough to roast marshmallows. Yes, I have three brothers. Yes, I work with a bunch of tough cops and rougher-talking lowlifes. _But_.

I hustle off to the kitchen. "What all's involved in vampire-proofing my house?" I fill a couple of glasses with ice and rustle up a pitcher of lemonade, a few cans of pop and some cold bottled beer.

"That's Dunham's department." Tiny replies from the couch. Nice of him to help out with making conversation and easing the tension. And, I'm just a little ray of sunshine myself, aren't I?

I make sure my robe is securely belted and knotted. Should I change? Um, yeah. A robe with nothing under it is a bit too intimate with new male co-workers. I dash into my room and return in yoga pants, a tee shirt (carefully sports bra-ed) and zippered hoodie. Nothing provocative here.

The dutiful hostess, I wash some green grapes, find Oreos and Pecan Sandies and assemble a plate. Off with the tray into the living room. Dunham descends in a rugby shirt, cargo shorts and bare feet. Tiny looks out of place in his khaki slacks and rumpled white shirt. At least he lost the jacket and tie.

"What did you smell in the back corner of my yard?" I settle onto the love seat with a glass of lemonade, tucking up my stockinged feet.

Dunham helps himself to a can of pop and a couple of cookies. "A vampire and a human beginning to smell like a vampire."

My throat closes. Tiny's gone pale, beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

"Was it Ryan?" I hardly recognize my own voice.

He nods. "I caught his honeysuckle smell. But it's corroding fast under the rotten blood scent."

I close my eyes and cover my mouth. His scent changing means he's being fundamentally altered.

"How old was the scent?" Tiny's voice stabs like a stiletto.

"An hour or so. They were there after it rained."

"How can that be if he's in Burnsville like Jesseray said?"

"The weather had some influence." Dunham munches his cookie meditatively. "Even when drinking shapeshifter blood, vampires can't stand direct sunlight for more than seconds. But the clouds came in, and it rained not long before Detective Jesseray had her douser work done this evening. So, the vampire could have risen before sunset, exchanged blood with Agent Cathcart and driven from Burnsville to Saint Paul to await her in her back yard."

"How do we know the douser was accurate? The vampire and Cathcart could have been driving while it was being done." Tiny looks frustrated.

Dunham and I exchange glances. He shrugs.

"I'll ask her to re-douse after sunrise." I retrieve my cell, dial and converse briefly with Raven. She'll do everything in her power to help, of course. God bless her. She agrees to call me at five thirty tomorrow morning. We disconnect.

"I really fancy these biscuits. Mind if I have some more?" Dunham's eyes gleam like a little boy's. Reaching a guy through his stomach—works every time. I gesture to the kitchen, and he returns with the package of Pecan Sandies. There's the whole shapeshifter metabolism thing. I've noticed I've been much more peckish lately. I reach for the green grapes.

"Ryan obviously told his enslaver where I live. So, that's no longer a secret. It's even more important, then, that I vampire-proof my house. Does that myth about vampires' requiring an invitation to cross a threshold apply?"

"Yes," Dunham brushes cookie crumbs from his shirt. "But, they can glamour through glass to influence a human or shapeshifter to open a door or window and invite them in." Dunham stares at me meaningfully. Oh. He doesn't want me to mention that we're unglamourable. Hmmm. Well, secrets aren't told by those who don't know them. He ends with, "But they can't enter at all if sacred objects bar the way—even if an invitation has been offered."

"So, how do we vampire-proof my house?"

Dunham digs in the duffel he brought downstairs with him. He brings out a leather bag and unties its pull cords, showing us a handful of tiny tin crosses. "Four on each window. One at the top, one on the sash and two on each sill about a foot apart." He retrieves a small hammer and half-inch nails. "Do you have a hammer for yourself and SSA Smith?"

I run downstairs, locate a couple of hammers and return, handing Tiny one. For the next ten minutes, hammering echoes through my house as we affix crosses on every window and door including the basement and upstairs windows. Dunham handles both doors, nailing tiny crosses to the sides of the molding around and above them, and several on each doorsill. He gives a handful to Tiny who nods his thanks and pockets them.

I'm exhausted but still come up with one last question. "Ryan's been in my house a lot and some of my friends', too. If he's turned, could he enter based on previous invitations?"

"No, he has to be invited in as a vampire."

When I talk to Raven tomorrow, I'll tell her about Ryan's being turned and how to vampire-proof her house. I'm sure she has tons of pentacles, Trees of Life, Buddhas, and Kwan Yins about.

I carry the tray back into the kitchen. Tiny snitches another beer as it goes by. I reach into the fridge and swap him a cold one for his warmer one. He smiles at me tiredly. The hatchet's buried for the night. I notice that my package of Pecan Sandies has gone missing.

I bid them both good night to shamelessly hog the bathroom first. It's _my_ house. The wounds on my neck and arm are healed. Being a shapeshifter isn't all bad, I guess. The healing and the metabolism, you know. _But_. I'd give anything for twelve quiet hours with Ryan. _My_ Ryan. The one who kissed me in my hospital bed. Not the one who waited in my back yard with that...thing.

I return to the kitchen for my gun. The lights are out. Good. I don a sleep tank and boxers. As I set the alarm, the kitty kids ghost in. Their eyes are like platters. Big scary guys in the house, lots of loud noises. Collar bells jingle as they leap light-footed onto the bed. Significant snuggles and utterly false affirmations of their courage later, they're all purrs. I settle into the mattress, bracketed by cats.

My hope for Ryan is starting to fade, though. Hearing he'd stood with his vampire enslaver in my backyard waiting...wounded something inside me. He betrayed me, stalking me with that vampire. _My_ Ryan would never have done that.

Will I ever get him back? If I do, will it really be him? Or something altered? Could he ever be whole after this? Tears pour down my face.

Kitty companions snuggle closer, purring increasing in volume. Sleep sneaks in on little cat feet.

Later that night: _I know I'm dreaming, but it's a really good dream so I go with it. Actually, it's a memory._

Ryan and I are on a picnic at Horton Park, a nice open grassy area with a few trees. My grandma's old quilt from my car is underneath us. We're facing each other, propped up on our elbows. He feeds me a grape. Laughing, I threaten to stuff one up his nose. He calls me a shit and grabs my hand, forcing it down to my side. Then, rolls and pins me down with his body. Our smiling lips meet, linger and grow heated. Hands become busy. A pointedly cleared throat from the nearby sidewalk brings us to our senses.

Ryan flushes and ducks his face away from the scowling little old lady. I sit up, wave and smile at her. She winks at me, smiles and totters off.

I get up, grab our baseball gloves and toss Ryan his. I trot a good distance away and wait until he's safely away from our dishes and glasses. Then I loft the ball into a high, powerful arc toward him. Perfect aim. It slaps neatly into his glove.

Since we both played high school ball, it's always fun to play catch with him or sometimes "Flies and Skinners" as my Louisiana cousins call it. Ryan cocks his wrist and throws sidearm for a "skinner." At its first hop, it hits a rock and caroms off at a forty-five degree angle. Disappointed, I jog after it.

" _Try again, bench warmer," I taunt and throw it back._

He eyes me with a half-smile and tosses it high and long this time, far over my head and back to where I originally started from. I scowl at him over my shoulder as I race after it. He grins in satisfaction.

I throw him several more great tosses. Each time, his return shot misses me by a mile. The last time I see his shit-eating grin before I turn away to go after it. The little turd has been running my butt all over the park on purpose. Why, I oughtta.... Two can play this game.

I retrieve the ball and jog toward him. Heartfelt concern shows on my face as I call, "Hey, honey, are you okay?" I'm getting within yards now. "Is there something wrong with your arm? Here, let me look at it...."

I pounce then, tackling him to the ground. He's laughing, hands up batting away my questing fingers that reach for his sensitive ears. Then, I go for that extra special spot on his ribs and tickle him ruthlessly. He has the cutest giggle in the world. Finally, he begs for mercy.

The kisses that follow send tingles all the way down to my toes.

We gather up our picnic things, go back to my house and make love all afternoon.

I wake to find tears pooling in my ears. _Ohmgod, Ryan._ Turning on my side _,_ I stifle sobs in my pillow. How I miss him. I'm so scared for him.

As sobs degenerate into hiccups, I hear a scratching at my window.

Instantly alert, I sit up and turn on the bedside lamp. Cats drop onto the floor, running, bellies low, out the barely open bedroom door. I reach for my gun in its holster on the bedside table, pull it, rack a shell and flick off the safety. Holding the gun by my thigh, I rise and pad to the window where I push aside the curtain and pull the blind out a bare inch.

There, a figure stands on my sidewalk, another clutched to its chest. The standing figure angles back slightly. The streetlight in front of my house shows the shadowed planes of Jordy's slack face. _Oh. My. God._

I flick the latches open and raise the window. "What do you want?" I call quietly.

"Come to the back of the house. Alone." It's an oily vampire voice.

As I close and re-latch the window, the alarm clock's readout shows one fourteen.

I walk down the hallway. The nightlight in the bathroom glows through the pink flat sheet over its door. The old house's floors creak under my feet as I pass through the dining room. Upstairs, I hear someone shift, the floor protesting under a cot. I flip on the kitchen light and disarm the alarm from the keypad in the kitchen. It beeps once loudly, saying "Disarmed" in a posh English accent. Sound carries beautifully in my 1930s-built house. On the floor upstairs, I hear feet hit and then move to the bannister rail.

"DJ?" Someone hisses from upstairs. I ignore him; I'm going alone, as they specified. One finger flips on the back porch light. Whoever's awake upstairs will see the backyard light come on and investigate—gun in hand, if I know them at all. I can't help that my house is noisy, and my guests are light sleepers, can I? Footsteps stride to the window the floor above where I'm standing. It overlooks the back yard. I unlock the door and look out the screened storm door. Footsteps descend the stairs above. I open the door and hear the sound of the window opening upstairs at the same time.

"What do you want?" I ask in a hushed tone.

The vampire laughs. It's one from the second house in North Minneapolis. He's tall, the one who's holding Jordy, and speaks with an oily southern accent. "Why, you, darlin'! Aren't you just the sneakiest lil' ol' cat around. It took us a while to find your scent, but we found it. Ol' Eddie recognized it at once. He gets real excited when he smells you."

I repeat, "What do you want?"

A female vampire glides over next to the tall male. Jordy's pale, slack face makes me nauseated. What did they do to him? A bare foot brushes the floor behind me.

The female leans over and licks Jordy's face. "This pretty boy if we can't have you. He's your partner, isn't he? Eddie pointed him out to us before he went off to his early rendezvous with you. We followed this one to the Blues Saloon in case we needed some leverage. And Eddie never came back. And here you are. And here's our leverage." Her voice is lazy, arch and seductive. She reaches down to fondle Jordy's crotch through his pants. "My, he's got a nice big one, and, I know just what to do with it." She kneels to nuzzle and caress Jordy where she'd had her hand.

I feel my teeth grinding. Now I remember why Jordy's dressed up for a night out. Who's this Eddie they're going on about? Oh. Kemp. That bastard is turning out to be the biggest pain in my ass imaginable. And that vicious bitch is pissing me off, major.

The tall male speaks up, "Our boss wants ta see you, detective. He wants ta negotiate a trade. You fer Agent Cathcart. This lovely man fer yer word yer'll come with us without a fuss." The tall vampire licks Jordy's neck. I shudder in disgust.

The female vampire unzips Jordy's pants.

A silenced gun coughs once, twice overhead. One bullet strikes the male in the forehead. The other hits the female in the side of the head. Obviously, Smith's shooting. Dunham couldn't have made those shots.

I'm out the door in an instant, gun with suppressor raised. Kick the female away from where Jordy now lies. Put a bullet in her with great relish. Point blank. In the heart.

The male had reeled backward after dropping Jordy. The gun overhead coughs again. A heart shot this time. I bend over to check Jordy.

A body impacts me from behind, sweeping me off my feet. The gun is ripped from my hand. Cold arms grip me. The back door slams. In a flash, I'm carried to the back gate. From behind comes a feral snarl. A cold hand fumbles with a latch. The back gate swings open. A great weight impacts the body behind mine. Cold arms fall away. Ash patters down. I look ahead from where I've fallen to hands and knees outside the vibrating back gate. By the blood and ash scent, another vampire stands silhouetted between the Charger and my garage door. She slowly backs away and is gone in a blur down the alley.

Rising, I turn. An enormous white lion is gathered over its great paws, ready to leap, lips pulled back from massive fangs. Blue eyes glow with primal fury. Without volition, my feet step back. No wonder the vampire lit out. That face would definitely do it for me.

Dunham changes and swoops over, picks me up and dashes back down the sidewalk. Tiny has Jordy slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He ascends the back steps. Dunham's right behind Tiny. The door closes after us. My insides are shaking. Dunham puts me down. As I walk over underclothing lying by the back doorway, the locks engage behind me.

I follow Tiny into the dining room and flip on the light. Anger is slowly boiling up inside me. Tiny deposits Jordy on the couch in the living room. I drop into a dining room chair to grip my head in my hands.

"All right?" It's Dunham. I glance over at him. Dunham's a bikini briefs man. Bright blue to match his eyes. Tiny? Black boxers. I could have predicted it. Dunham, in a light blue wife-beater, displays some mighty fine pecs and guns for the lanky type. Tiny, a mountain of muscle is in a white Hanes short-sleeved standard tee. Again, predictable.

This petty distraction and delay helps me to get my anger under control. I'm breathing deep and slow. Under control yet? Yep. Ready, aim, fire.

I take a deep breath. "That was our first _real_ chance to recover Ryan. And you both shot the hell out of it. Literally and figuratively." I share a glare between Tiny and Dunham. See? Under control.

Tiny's mouth is open. He gulps and says, "We just saved your ass."

"And sacrificed Ryan to do it."

"But—"

I bulldoze right over Tiny. "You saw me in action this afternoon. I can handle a lot, Tiny. And with my different forms, I have a lot of options for evading capture and getting away. You should have given me the chance to get to where Ryan is, then followed me in, along with the National Guard if necessary. _Dammit!_ " I pound the table and rip my hair back from my face.

Flushed, Tiny storms back. "But you're not unkillable! That master vampire's first order of business would have been to take you out, regardless of any deal you think you had with this bunch. You might not have ever even made it to where Ryan is. We couldn't risk it."

Dunham's leaning against the kitchen door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. "They could have trussed you in silver chains, and you'd have been helpless like a bairn in nappies. Kennedy and the FBI brass were all really clear with us, DJ. Your continued safety is a higher priority than recovering Agent Cathcart."

" _What?!_ " I'm aghast. "So, he's what? Expendable? Collateral damage? Why?"

Tiny comes over to mirror Dunham's pose against the archway between the living room and dining room. "Just a lower priority because of your gifts, detective, specifically, your blood's properties. Nobody on this continent—that we know of—has blood that sets vampires on fire."

My teeth clench and grind. Hands fisted, I march past Tiny into the living room to snatch piled pillows off the recliner. Kick. Pummel. Punch. Stomp. Jump up and down on. All the while using f-bombs in vastly creative ways. What did I say about control? Screw that. At least I didn't shift shape involuntarily.

Finally, I pick the pillows up and throw them back on the recliner. Check Jordy. Yep, he's got a pillow under his head, but, he's still out.

I stalk back beside Tiny. "How do _you_ feel about that, Tiny?" My hands are still clenched. Tiny's eyes dilate in fear. I dial back the fury and step away. _Give the man some space, DJ._

Tiny clears his throat and says in his best FBI voice, "I have my orders, detective."

I snarl, "Dammit, we're all standing here in our _underwear_ for God's sake. It doesn't get much more honest than this. Tell me what _you're_ feeling. I don't give a shit about SSA Smith's orders."

Tiny sits wearily on a dining room chair and lays a forearm on the table. He sighs. "I fucking hate it. He's my partner and my friend. We've worked together on this for months. I want to be out there right now, strafing every known vampire address with flame throwers or napalm. Ryan's a good man. He doesn't deserve this. He deserves everything we've got."

The truth. At last.

Tears run down my face. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. "Thank you."

Tiny nods.

Dunham straightens. "I don't know what else we can do for Agent Cathcart right now, do you?"

Tiny and I both shake our heads.

"Then, let's do the next best thing. Let's get Detective Burke home and protect his innocence."

We nod, go our separate ways and get dressed. Afterward, we re-assemble in the living room to consider Jordy's limp form. I push back his collar. No bite marks. I step back, turn my back and let Dunham inspect Jordy's femoral arteries. The jingle of a belt buckle comes next and the rasp of a zipper, a pause, then the sounds in reverse order.

Dunham reports. "No bites."

I heave a big sigh of relief. "Think they slipped him a Rufie?" I ask Tiny.

He nods. "Probably."

"He should be fine by morning, right?"

"Yes, but pretty groggy. He may need a sick day."

Dunham hefts Jordy, carrying him like a baby. Jordy's no small man, easily a six-footer, but Dunham lifts him like he's made of feathers. Jeesh. Blessed shapeshifter strength is nothing to sneeze at.

We all troop out to the SUV with a pause for me to lock the back door and set the alarm. I leave all the lights on. Any little bit helps when trying to deter vampires. Dunham arranges Jordy in the back beside me. We belt in and take off. I reach over and take Jordy's hand. It's warm. I feel his pulse throbbing through his fingers. It's strong. I wonder what Ryan's pulse feels like right now. Is his hand still warm? I hold Jordy's hand tightly all the way over to his place, calling directions for Tiny from the backseat, praying all the while for Ryan.

His place isn't very far, only a mile or two north of my house. Jordy has a small lakeside house by Como Park, a pricier neighborhood than mine. His family has some money, which is why he can drive an Acura and afford this house on a detective's salary.

When we get out at his house, the neighborhood is shrouded in silence. I can feel my ears pricking up. Claws scrape on pavement. Five werewolves dash out of the alley next to Jordy's house. We get the grand sniff over. Evidently, we're okay because they all melt back into the darkness but not far. I get the sense that they're guarding Jordy's house. Too little too late, maybe, but it's not their fault Jordy didn't stay the hell home.

I open the car door beside Jordy to slip a hand into his pants pockets to search for keys. If he were awake, he'd be milking this for all it's worth. I can just hear him, "Wait 'til I tell the guys you had your hands down my pants." I kiss his cheek after I find the keys, then, clear out for Dunham to pick him up and carry him to the house.

I unlock the door, disarm the alarm, walk in, turn on some lights and lead the guys upstairs. It's a no brainer to find his bedroom; there are only three rooms up there, an office, a workout room and the bedroom, all meticulous. Jordy's a neat freak.

Dunham places him on the bed. Tiny gets his shoes off. Dunham and I lever him up to get his jacket and belt off, gun in holster and badge on the bedside table.

We shut off the lights and descend the stairs. I lock what I can from the inside, toss the keys on the little stand inside the front door and set the alarm to arm once the door shuts. We're done. Mission accomplished.

As usual, the trip back to my house is silent. The weight of all this worry and fear for people we love and what's happening in the world....it's just crushing somehow tonight in this darkness. I'll never feel safe at night again, not like when I was a kid back home, sneaking out at night with Raven. I shudder now at the dangers we risked, all unknowing.

But, Grand Rapids, Minnesota is out in the great woods. Vampires would have a hard time nesting in such a small population, even though it's fairly fluid, especially in the summer. Tourism is its major industry, but even people in tourist towns notice the unusual. They'd be wondering and talking if people moved in permanently who never came out except at night.

With home in mind, I remember that my niece Ashley is in St. Paul. After the vampires kidnapped Jordy, I think she would be safer up north. If the vampires can ferret out Jordy, they can find Ashley. But who do I call this time of night at St. Kate's? I check the time on the SUV's dashboard; it's a little before two. (It amazes me how so much can happen in so short a time.) Could I raise a security guard? But what could a security guard do against a vampire? Should I just drive over there? Check on her myself?

Tiny wheels the SUV back in next to the Charger. We alight and trudge back toward the house, Tiny bringing up the rear, closing and latching the gate behind him.

I'm in the lead, walking up the sidewalk with my keys out when I hear a snarl. I whirl. Out of the shadows on the south side of my garage leaps a Bengal tiger. Kemp? The scent's unmistakable. I'll never forget it. But, how? Isn't he supposed to be locked up? And he's after Tiny. With another jump, he's smashed Tiny face down on the ground.

I rip off my clothes and visualize Nolan, the sanctuary's geriatric Siberian tiger. White light. The Bengal's just lowering open jaws to the back of Tiny's neck when I ram into him, bowling him over. I've been wanting to do this since I saw his rat face hovering over me in the hospital.

I nearly roar in delight, but remember in time that this is a residential neighborhood. I whap Kemp across the chops with a huge paw and fully extended claws. He backs up, shaking his head, his eyes wide. I can almost hear him thinking, "How can she be a Siberian when I'm a Bengal?" I take deep satisfaction in smashing him in the face again. Then I go for his throat but get a mouthful of fur. Male tigers don't have huge manes like lions, but they have substantial neck fur to protect them from jaws like mine.

I regroup. We stalk around each other, growling. I pounce, biting his hip, raking his shoulder with some serious claws. He's not fighting me. _Bastard_. Is it because he's still got the idea that I'm going to be his honey? Never happening.

With that thought, I spring at him again with a flurry of fangs and claws. He finally gives up, leaps my chain-link fence and sprints off down the alley. I'm gathering myself to follow when a huge body tackles me from behind. The white male lion. _Dammit_. Heaven preserve me from over-protective males.

I regain my paws and stalk around Dunham, growling. I am _so_ not pleased. I _so_ wanted to kick Kemp's ass, been aching to do it, especially after he showed up in the FBI parking lot with three vampires to kidnap me.

Dunham complacently licks a snowy paw. I nearly pounce on him out of sheer frustration.

"A little help here." I look over. Tiny's lying with his face in my lawn. How could I forget him?

I change back, scramble into my clothes and run over to Tiny. With hurried hands, I check him over and then help him sit up. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a white flash. Dunham's naked form walks over to scoop up and don his clothes.

_Keep your mind on business, girl,_ I scold myself and focus on the priority. "Can you move?" Tiny rolls over and manages to sit up. "Anything broken?"

Tiny groans. "I don't think so, but I'm gonna be a mass of bruises tomorrow." Together, Dunham and I help him into the house. I notice that Tiny's limping. Dunham closes and locks the door behind us and sets the alarm. The man's getting far too comfortable in my house.

I guide Tiny to sit in a dining room chair. He's got a few scratches on his left cheek. He pulls up his pants' leg; his knee's bright red, major bruising there. That's probably what hit the ground first—with a five hundred plus pound tiger on top of him. It's a miracle he didn't break any bones. I retrieve an ice bag from the freezer and hand it to him. Then I help him ease his tee shirt to up under his arms. More major bruising.

"Ouch." He commences swearing when his ribcage expands. I finish pulling off his tee shirt for him, one arm at a time.

"Do you mind if I poke a little?" I ask.

Tiny shakes his head and angles his body so that I can reach his back. I press a little on his ribcage. He sucks in a pained breath.

"He probably has cracked ribs on both sides," Dunham offers from the kitchen. "That's where Kemp's paws landed."

"What are you doing?" I glance over as he's opening cupboard doors, searching.

"Looking for a pot and some brandy. Got any milk? A spoon? Shot glass? Spices?"

I direct him as I walk into the bathroom, wet a warm washcloth, soap it, grab ibuprofen and Neosporin and stop at the linen closet for an ace wrap.

After piling everything on the dining room table, I hand Tiny the washcloth and tell him to wash his face. He seems surprised when he sees blood on the washcloth. I take it to the kitchen sink, rinse, wring and hand it to him again. He wipes away the lather. Dab the Neosporin on his facial scratches and then show him the ace wrap.

"Would you like me to wrap your ribs with this? I know it isn't standard practice anymore for cracked ribs, but my brothers always appreciated the soft support."

Tiny considers, then nods. I apply the stretchy fabric; he's so broad across the back that the extra-long wrap only goes around three or four times. The man is slabbed with muscle. I fasten the little clips.

Dunham hands Tiny a steaming mug.

"What's this?" Tiny inquires.

"My granny's hot toddy recipe. It'll make you sleep like a bairn. Lord knows we all need a little help after a night like tonight."

Tiny nods gratefully and sips. His eyes widen. "Didja trip when you tipped up the bottle?"

Dunham just grins, puts a mug on the table for me, takes up his own and sits in a dining room chair.

It's time for real sustenance; in the kitchen, I slice chicken, cheese and add Triscuits to the platter. Tiny'll need food in his stomach for the ibuprofen, and I know Dunham's hungry. I can hear both our bellies rumbling. Changing shape burns a lot of calories.

We polish off everything in about ten minutes. By this time, it's after two thirty. My butt's dragging, and bed's definitely calling me. I collect the dirty dishes and arrange them with Dunham's toddy pot in the dishwasher.

Dunham takes Tiny's ice bag; I hand Tiny the ibuprofen after he creaks to his feet. Dunham follows him, hands ready to steady him as Tiny slowly mounts the stairs.

I blow my breath up into my bangs. What a day. I hit the lights, brush my teeth, pull off enough clothes for comfort and hit the bed. Sleep crashes over me.

Later: I'm dreaming again. Another memory. A precious one.

Ryan had told me to dress up for our date that Saturday night, so I'd pulled out all the stops.

Curling iron for masses of curls, pulled back with lacey gold barrettes to frame my face. Black lace bra with a front closure and matching tiny panties. Black garter belt, black hosiery. Gold metallic dress, tight long sleeves, plunging neckline, skirt slit to upper-thigh. Big gold earrings and an ebony and gold beaded choker. Black strappy sandals with high heels. It was March, so thank all that's holy, we'd had a thaw. Otherwise, I'd've broken my neck in them on the sidewalks. Full makeup, micro-thin dark brown liner all the way around my eyes, shimmering gold eye shadow, deeper bronze at the edge of my eye fold for smokiness. Blush high on my cheekbones. Dark cerise maximum-stay lipstick. A spray of Ryan's favorite perfume that I walked into. Dabbed a little behind my ears, in my cleavage, lower.

I found my little black clutch purse, inserted a few essentials. The doorbell rang. I practiced my runway strut on the way to the door. I opened it barely and motioned him in. He stepped in, closing the door behind him.

There in the entryway, Ryan examined me, head to toe, his eyes dilating. He pushed me roughly against the wall, his mouth devouring mine, inserting a knee between mine, a hungry hand cupping my breast. Mmmmm. I couldn't have asked for a better reaction.

After too short a time, he leaned back, looking very smug. "Got a Louisville Slugger, handy? I'm gonna need one to keep all the men off you tonight." All I could do was smile.

He helped me into my long black wool coat, tucked a scarf tenderly around my neck and up by my ears. Escorted me like I'm fine porcelain to his car. He drove me into downtown Saint Paul, off Sibley. Ah, Trattoria da Vinci. He took me here on our first date. Great food.

As we walked to our table, I assumed my runway strut for him. Behind me, I felt his eyes on my ass. After we were seated, he ordered wine, twined his fingers with mine, and just stared at me. "You're so gorgeous."

" _I have to keep up with you, you know." My tone teased, but my eyes showed him I was serious. He'd paired an immaculate bronze tweed suit with a blue shirt and tie that made his eyes pop._

He blushed, looking away. He doesn't think he's all that great-looking. I firmly disagree, and I saw lots of women in the restaurant checking him out. I know what I've got, and they have no idea how great the prize inside is. A wonderful, kind, generous, fun, funny, considerate, ethical man. He's a gem, and I'm keeping him. I eyed the women eyeing him, glared, in fact. They turned away. Mine. Not sharing.

We ordered. Talked about a trip we wanted to take together in April. I teased him outrageously to build the anticipation for later, running my finger along my neckline and playing with my necklace to draw his eyes there. Slid my foot up the inside of his calf. Leaned over often to show the swells of my breasts, letting them brush the table. His eyes nearly burned me. He grabbed my hand and kissed the back, turned it over, kissed the palm, licking it sensuously. Fortunately, our food arrived before we burst into flame. We caught each other's eyes and laughed at our own antics. We're so well-suited for each other.

While we ate, we shared funny stories about our families. His face across from me was more satisfying than the food. After our plates were taken away, Ryan touched his napkin to his mouth and then held out his hand for mine.

His eyes caress mine. "DJ, I didn't think I'd ever find someone like you. You're the woman of my dreams, and I only want to know one thing tonight: will you marry me?"

I gulped. Joy fizzed in my brain like champagne. "Of course, I will. You're all I've ever wanted."

Ryan beamed, reached into his pocket and took out a ring box, opened it and slid a ring on my finger. A simple diamond solitaire. Not huge but absolutely stunning and a perfect symbol of our love.

Ryan paid the bill, hurried us into our coats and the car. We hardly took our eyes off each other all the way back to my place. His hand never left mine until he pulled the car in behind my house. He leapt out, opened the car door for me, helped me out and we raced up the side walk. After a fumbling frantic entry, he slammed and locked the door, groping for the lights.

Then, he took me into his arms, lowering his lips slowly to mine. The kiss scorched me to the soles of my feet. We stumbled through the kitchen, dropping our coats. He stopped me for a moment, "Since you teased me so mercilessly at da Vinci's, you're not allowed to speak one word for the next hour. All right?" I nodded, eagerly. "And you can't touch me." I pouted, then nodded again.

He stooped to unlace his shoes and unbuckle my sandals in the dining room. Then, he gleefully backed me down the hall and into my bedroom. He reached for the lights. "I want to see everything tonight."

The growl in his voice and the heat in his eyes made my nipples contract. He noticed them through the dress's thin fabric, grabbed the shoulder of my dress and bra strap and yanked down, exposing my breast. His mouth descends, hot, wet and ravening. Desire struck through me like lightening, arching me into him. He pushed me back onto my nice high bed, biting, sucking.

He looked up, his blue eyes molten. "You've teased me with these all night, woman, and I want them both. Now." He yanked the other shoulder of my dress down, pinning my arms to my sides. His mouth devoured the other bared breast. Crying out, I wrapped my legs around him, rocking against him.

He backed away. "None of that now, no distracting me from my prizes." He skimmed his hands over my breasts, cupping, pulling my nipples, leaned over and licked them hard, sucking hard. I nearly drummed my heels in ecstasy.

Then he stepped back, slowly undressing. I followed every move with my eyes, frantic to touch him. Naked, he took his cock in his hand and stroked it. "Do you want this?" My eyes are drinking his muscular chest and six pack abs like the finest wine. "Do you want to touch it? Lick it?" I nodded, licking my lips.

" _I know what I want," he said and slowly lifted my skirt, rubbing himself along my thigh. When he saw the garter belt and tiny panties, his cock jumped. His eyes met mine. "You're killing me."_

His hands shook as he unclipped the garters. Eased down my panties and hose and tossed them away. He ran his hands up my legs, slowly bending them at the knee. \By this time, my whole body trembled with need. One sly hand slid up my inner thigh as he stroked himself with the other."Tell me what you want, baby." I could only gasp and shake my head.

" _Yes, you can tell me," he teased, tracing my nether lips softly with a fingertip. Inserted it sweetly. "Oh, you're hot and slick and ready, aren't you?" I nodded ardently._

" _Here, sweetheart," he crooned tenderly, "I've got something for you." And he lunged in—to the hilt. I climaxed immediately, back arching helplessly off the bed, my mouth opened in a silent scream._

" _That's it, baby, get it," he urged me, thrusting hard, watching me as I came again...and again._

" _Ohmigod, you're so beautiful," he panted, thrusting wildly. My breasts bounced, their crests tight. He reached between us and pressed two fingers on either side of my clit and rubbed his thumb across it, again and again. The top of my head exploded. I heard myself screaming his name._

" _Yes, that's it," He exhaled helplessly and climaxed._

That's the night we pledged our lives to each other.

I wake with a start, pictures from the restaurant that night replaying on my mind's screen.

A tall, thin man with long black hair had watched us. At a table nearby he'd twirled a single, half-empty wineglass the entire time. His black eyes in a cruel, ascetic face had drunk in our teasing and enjoyment of each other. We'd been so obviously in love and full of life.

That long black hair and the lanky frame are unmistakable now. He was the Twin Cities' master vampire, regarding us with hot and greedy eyes.

## Chapter 9

My alarm goes off at five. I pull on my workout gear, grab my cell and head to the basement. A deep need to pound something drives me. I warm up, and the bag dances for about twenty minutes. In the bathroom overhead, the shower goes on and off, twice.

My cell rings. It's my mom. At five twenty in the morning?

"Hi, Mom. What're you doing calling this time of day?"

"I just woke up with one of those feelings I get sometimes. Call it 'mother's intuition.' What's going on with you?" My mom is so intuitive it's almost scary. She could always tell when something was up with one of us kids. My dad always knew when we were getting into trouble—his cop instincts, I guess. Mom has angst antennae.

"Oh, Mom...." It's a struggle to keep my voice from degenerating to a sob.

"Tell me everything, sweetie. That's why I called."

So I unload. About everything. Damn the gag order. My mom's psychic, so she's in danger simply because she might be turned into a shapeshifter who has blood properties like mine...and just because she's my family. She needs to know so she can protect herself. So, I spew. I mean everything, including the dreams I'd had last night.

"Oh, no." She sighs as I finish telling about the beginning of that last dream—not the end.

"What?"

"My grandmother used to have very vivid dreams about people right before they died."

I make a shocked sound and squeeze my eyes shut. "I _so_ didn't need to hear that."

"I'm sorry, honey, but it's the truth. I'd rather you be prepared for the worst than lie to you."

"I know." It feels like a fist is crushing my heart. "It's really hitting me that he may not be coming back."

"I'm so sorry, honey. Do you want us to come down there?"

Panic strikes right after relief, relief that Mom and Dad could come and take care of everything, panic that two more people I love could be in immediate harm's way.

"No. You're a whole lot safer there."

"I'll spread the word to pray for you both." The prayer chain in our old home church was a fixture of that community. Sometimes I wonder if it was more about gossip than petitioning the heavens. Cynical, much? Yep.

A thought occurs. "You don't seem very surprised about the whole shapeshifter-vampire world."

She hesitates. "I'm not. I already knew they existed."

"What? And you didn't tell me? Do the brothers know? Why didn't you tell me?"

"None of you were told. It was an agreement between your father and me. He didn't want his children exposed to that side of life."

I'm dumbfounded. "Even after I became a police officer? You didn't think that ignorance might endanger my life?"

She hesitated. "Your father felt it best that you learn of it through the course of your job rather than from us, if ever."

I huff in disbelief.

"I know, DJ," she continues. "I wasn't a big fan of that reasoning, but he was adamant."

_Holy_. _Shit_.

"Well, then, I guess I don't need to worry about telling you how to protect yourselves."

"No, your father and I took care of that when we first bought this place. The whole property is salted with crosses." And they were faithful church-goers, real believers, which made the crosses and their protection even more powerful. Then, I'm envisioning my dad, like an old-time farmer, walking his land, sowing crosses like seeds from a sack slung around his neck.

"Wow. I never noticed, and I don't think any of the brothers did either. At least none of them ever mentioned it to me."

"You wouldn't notice unless you knew what to look for. The next time you're home, look for all the different ways we've worked sacred objects and symbols into the decorations and buildings around the property." She never ceases to amaze me, and she's so calm about it all—even the fact that I'm a shapeshifter now. _I'm_ not even calm about that yet. It's obviously not a huge deal to her. I wonder why? So I ask her.

"Because I'm one, too."

" _What_??"

She sighs. "I'm a veterinarian, remember? Any injured wild animal that people find comes to me, and when they're in pain, they bite."

"When did it happen?"

"My last year of vet school, two months before I graduated. At first, I thought the fox was rabid, but then he changed into a man when he came out of anesthetic. I barely survived the change. I moved here to take over old Doc Johansen's practice because I didn't want any part of the Twin Cities supernatural community. And frankly, it's not a huge part of my life."

"You're not forced to turn at every full moon?"

"No. Only when I get the urge, a couple of times a year. Your dad adores it. He loves that his wife is an animal." She chuckles.

Okay, Mom, now we're getting into the realm of too much information. "What kind are you?"

"Fox is my go-to form. It makes sense in this area. But, like you, I have options because I was scratched and bitten a lot before I was turned. You know I worked with the big cats at the Como Zoo as an intern during vet school."

Well, bowl me over with a feather.

Another thought strikes. "How did you and Dad learn about the supernatural world to start with?"

"My grandmother told me about it when I was young. She was a serious practitioner, a healer of people _and_ animals, so she had more involvement with that side of life than either my mother or I did. Your father and I met in the Twin Cities and moved up here." Wow, I'd love to hear that story.

"Did you both know this about each other before you got married?"

"Yes, we knew." There was more to this than she was letting on.

"What else?"

She hesitates. "Um, I'd rather keep that between your father and me, if you don't mind."

Oops, I'm trampling boundaries. "Sorry. So, how serious a practitioner was Great-grandmama?"

"Oh, she had spell and lore books. Right before she retired, she wrote a book on herbal natural remedies that was a hot seller in her county. She taught classes on herb lore and how to make tinctures and salves. You know she worked as a nurse and midwife, right?"

"I remember someone mentioning it once. Are any of her books still around?"

"I think Diane has an old trunk of Grandmama's. I'll ask her about it."

"That'd be great. I'd love to get my hands on them. How interesting."

"I've always thought you might have some of her abilities. Your sense of smell was always much stronger than mine or your Grandma's. Your intuition about people was always right on after you smelled them, too."

"When I come home next time, would you and Aunt Diane be willing to tell me everything you remember about Great-grandmama?"

"Sure, honey. When will you be coming?"

My breath hitches. "It depends on what happens with Ryan. If we can rescue him, it'll be a while because he'll need time and support to recover. If we don't...."I swallow hard. "I'll probably see you within the next couple of days...."

A grim silence on the other end of the line. "I know. If the worst happens, we'll want you here with us, too."

I whisper. "And I'll need to be there."

"We'll be praying, sweetheart." Her voice makes my heart ache.

"Thanks so much, Mom."

"It's the least we can do for Ryan. You know how much we love him."

"I know." I have to hang up before I start wailing. "I gotta go, Mom. I have to be at work by six o'clock. We're storming the monsters' gates today."

"Good luck...and keep your head down."

"I will. I love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart." We disconnect.

The phone rings immediately after. I nearly jump out of my shoes.

It's Raven. "Hey, girl."

"Hey." Her voice is raspy with sleep. "The douser still shows him in Burnsville."

"Thanks, sweetie. Do me a favor and put sacred symbols around all your doors and windows, okay? If you see Ryan, don't let him get within about a yard of your face. Don't invite him into the house either."

"Okaa-aaaay." She pauses. "You're going to fill me in completely someday, right?"

"I will. I promise."

"Something really huge is happening, Deej. Be really careful today, will you?"

"I will." We hang up.

I take the stairs two at a time. The ground floor is empty. Thank God. I'm not up for any ultra-early morning encounters with half-naked men I work with. Though after we all stood around together in our underwear last night, I should be a little more okay with it. Yes, I have brothers, but they're, especially Dunham, not my brothers. It's time to stop noticing Dunham that way because it's distracting me.

I shower, brush away morning breath, comb out my wet hair and don the same clothes I had on last night, sans undies. I'm going to be shifting back and forth all day long, so why bother? The hoodie's big and covers a lot.

Makeup? Well...a girl's gotta have a little pride. A little eyeliner and mascara. Good enough. I wonder if makeup stays on through a shift...? Hadn't really thought about it before.

The guys are waiting in the dining room, their go-bags ready. With a collective nod, we head for the door.

Tiny climbs into the SUV, phone already clamped to his ear. He backs out and roars off. Dunham rides shotgun with me.

"Did you sleep?" He asks, eyes assessing my face. It'd looked pretty ghostly in my mirror. A lot's happening, and the strain's showing.

"Yeah, surprisingly. You're granny's toddy worked like a charm. You?"

"'Like a bairn,' as said Scottish granny used to say."

"Yeah? Is that the side of the family the psychic gifts are from?"

"Yes. Grannies for many generations dodged the witch hunters."

"How'd they do it?"

He hesitates. "We get ...feelings about things."

"Like precognition?"

"That'd be a mite scientific for what I get. I just...know things. About situations, about people."

"Give me an example."

"Like SSA Smith. Former military. Responsible, duty-bound. Very loyal. He's out of his depth, and he knows it. Bloke's scared out of his shoes, but who'd know?"

I ponder that. "Do you have any 'feelings' about Ryan?"

He hesitates. "No." He's lying; I can tell by that sour smell. He just doesn't want to say. I gulp back tears.

That vampire in the back yard with Ryan last night influenced him to betray me. Fear for him grips an iron hand around my heart. Distraction, please.

"Any feelings about me? My family?"

He concentrates. I can almost see him consulting an inner knowing. "There's ...something. Someone's in danger. Besides you. Do any of them live around here?"

"My oldest brother's daughter is at a summer camp at St. Kate's."

His eyes fill with utter certainty.

_Ohmigod, Ashley!_ I knew I should have driven over last night, but it completely left my mind after Kemp's attack on Tiny. I didn't even _think_ to mention it to my mom. Where's my freakin' head?

He takes a breath, pauses. "You know your life is never going to be the same. Right?"

Tangent much? Wait, let me catch up. "What do you mean?" My heart's hammering so loud I can barely hear him.

"You can't go back to your old life. "

We pull into the Hamline station house and park. I look over at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He gets out of the car instead. What the heck? But there's no time to dissect vague portents or badger reluctant oracles.

I rip out my cell and quick-call Ashley. No answer so I leave her a voice mail to call me ASAP. I call my brother, Ashley's dad; he lives in Grand Rapids. No answer. I leave a voicemail asking when he heard from Ashley last and to call me immediately.

At the precinct, I stop to sign in the Charger and drop off the keys at the front desk. Kennedy steps out of the elevator, catches my eye and pulls me into a nearby conference room. I inform him of what happened with Jordy last night. His face sets into grim lines as he shakes his head.

"I'll approve a sick day for him. Those damned vicious freaks. You say werewolves were guarding his home?" I nod.

"Damned decent of them."

"I thought so." Then I fill him in on how Kemp attacked Tiny when we got back to my house.

He nods, "Lawson informed me that Kemp escaped last night."

"Yeah, we noticed." Irony drips. "Tell me: how does anyone break out of FBI custody?" An edge of sarcasm there.

"Evidently, it takes special accommodations to keep a shapeshifter jailed. Silver-painted bars, for example. He bent the bars of his cell all to hell and killed the guard sometime in the early morning hours."

"Yeah, he was at my place right around two. He must've gone straight to my house from the Resident Agency. Tiny must've done something that really pissed him off."

Just another complication we don't need right now, especially since Kemp saw those vampires go up in flames after biting me. There goes my low profile.

Lawson bursts into the room, his face livid. "I want that woman in custody right now." He's pointing at me. "I want her in Sandstone today!" Sandstone is the Minnesota women's penitentiary. So much for the cool I admired in him at the big confab yesterday.

Kennedy folds his arms slowly, his eyes steady on Lawson. "Why?"

"She's responsible for the attack on SSA Smith last night. He's got cracked ribs, claw marks across his face, and a knee injury. I'm placing her under arrest for assaulting a federal agent."

"Hold on a minute. I thought Kemp attacked him." Kennedy's honestly puzzled.

"No, she did it. They're just covering up for her."

I'm struck completely dumb.

Dunham steps into the room behind Lawson and closes the door behind him. "I suggest you lower your voice, sir, unless you want the entire facility to know what we're trying to keep secret."

Lawson glares at him. "You're a big part of the problem, Dunham. You're fired. Get your ass on a plane out of here. Now."

Wow, when Lawson goes off the merry-go-round, he's _really_ off.

Tiny opens the door, pokes his head in. "What's all the shouting about?"

Dunham lounges back against the conference room wall, hands in his pants pockets. "Lawson, here, has accused the detective of attacking you last night. Placed her under arrest in fact...and he just sacked me."

"What?" Tiny's face drops in utter confusion. He enters and closes the door. "No, sir," he's addressing Lawson. "It was Edward Kemp who attacked me in tiger form in the detective's back yard."

Lawson snaps, "How do you know? Did you see his face? You're just taking their word for it. Covering for her, too."

Tiny's head snaps back in astonishment. "Why would I do that for someone who busted me up?"

"I recognized Kemp's scent," Dunham adds mildly. Kennedy drifts over into a corner to talk quietly on his phone.

"What're you still doing here, Dunham? Your ass should be on a plane back to Europe."

"So you've informed me, sir. I'm simply indulging my personal curiosity before I depart. What happened between last night when we left you at the Resident Agency and this morning? You were completely with us on everything then."

"You're just a bunch of shapeshifter sympathizers, and we're supporting your war against the vampires. I won't be a part of it, and I won't allow my agency to be either." Lawson's sputtering now.

Tiny, Dunham and I exchange bewildered glances. Kennedy hangs up.

"You don't have the authority to make that statement, Agent Lawson." Kennedy's dark eyes snap.

"I certainly do,"

"I just spoke with the Agent in Charge. He's relieved you of command, and he's on his way over."

Lawson's face goes white. He whirls and charges out the door.

Kennedy's voice is quiet. "The Agent in Charge didn't support any of Lawson's assertions. Mr. Dunham, your contract is still intact. DJ, you are not under arrest."

We all just shake our heads and file out of the room.

Kennedy follows me into the squad briefing room and closes the door firmly. We hang out just inside the doorway as I tell him Dunham's presentiment about Ashley. We have to yell in each other's ears to be heard over the multitude of voices.

"Did Agent Cathcart know she's in the cities?"

I nod. "We were going to a play her summer camp is putting on this weekend."

He shakes his head, his lips set in a grim line. "Do you know the name of her program? I'll get a black and white to stop over there later this morning." I write out the details for him.

The door swings open behind us. A tall bald man in a black suit introduces himself as Agent in Charge McLaughlin. He shakes Kennedy's and my hands.

"Where is Assistant Agent in Charge Lawson?" His voice is a reedy baritone.

Kennedy shrugs politely. "He left immediately after I informed him you'd relieved him of command."

McLaughlin's lips tighten. Then, he glances around the briefing room. "I know I can leave this operation in your and SSA Smith's capable hands, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

McLaughlin nods to me and turns on a heel, striding angrily across the floor as he pulls out a cell phone. Kennedy and I exchange wide-eyed looks. Kennedy closes the door again.

A huge coffee urn, stacks of breakfast sandwiches and fruit await against the far wall. Shapeshifters in SWAT gear and shiny new badges munch and slurp, sitting on folding chairs. Patrick introduces me around—first names only. There're about twelve new faces, three of them women. By scents, mostly wolves, a couple of bears, a cougar pair. No Ramsey. No big surprise. He's too prominent a figure to be outted this way.

To my surprise, Dunham takes the podium. Kennedy and Tiny (I notice he's changed into a UPS delivery man's outfit?) are in the back row. I claim my breakfast and sit next to Kennedy.

Kennedy leans over. "Nice outfit, by the way."

I grin. "Jealous?"

"Damn right." He's in his usual dark suit and starched shirt. Power tie—red—today. Nice of him to try to take my mind off the danger to Ashley and Lawson's weird behavior.

Dunham sips his tea, introduces himself and explains his role as consultant. "Thank you for volunteering your time today. Supervising Special Agent Smith will be running today's field operation." Dunham nods to the back. Tiny raises a hand when heads swivel. "Lieutenant Kennedy coordinates with other units from this location." Kennedy nods to the crowd.

"As our only human member, SSA Smith will remain in the vehicle in radio contact at all times. He will not enter the residence until other FBI agents arrive to take over the scene. He'll coordinate with Lieutenant Kennedy if any emergency services are required." That is, Kennedy will call the FBI's ambulance and coroners at need. I suppress a shudder.

"Before each attempt, Detective Jesseray will scout the address to ensure it is still occupied by vampires, in case they twigged to our operation and decamped in the night."

My eyebrows rise. Could Kemp have returned to his vamp buddies and gotten the word out that fast?

"After she returns, we'll deploy, going through the back door whenever possible to minimize alarm in residential neighborhoods. I understand that all of you have either military training or are current or past law enforcement officers. You know how to handle yourselves in such situations." Patrick looks over with a hint of a smug smile. I give him a thumbs up.

"Once inside, enslaved humans or shapeshifters may attack. They may have silver bullets, which is why you were assigned full riot gear. If at all possible, do not kill the enslaved. Knock them out instead. Everyone know how?" Nods all around. "I'll handle any enslaved shapeshifters. They will be unconscious when I'm finished."

"Once their enslaving vampire is ash, the enslaved will return to normal. You may choose to handcuff enslaved humans until that time. You've been issued several pairs of cuffs. All of you have several magazines of wooden ammunition as well. Everyone's brought guns to fit the ammo?" Everyone nods. "Each of you has been issued a splat gun and bandolier for the balls. We'll be making splat balls using holy water on the way to our stops. Holy water is like acid to vampires. Incapacitates but doesn't kill, so aim those for their faces. Everyone has been assigned several cedar stakes. You've also been issued Kevlar collars studded with crosses to protect your necks. They're not terribly comfortable, but they _will_ save your life and perhaps the lives of your mates. Please put them on if you haven't already. The helmets can wait until we're ready to go in. SSA Smith will be handing out suppressors. Please affix them to your weapons. Since we're going into residential areas, we want to minimize muzzle flash and sound to keep neighbors from becoming alarmed. SSA Smith will collect them from you at the end of your shift to pass along to the next. Please let us know if your guns aren't machined for suppressors. We'll supply guns that are."

Tiny speaks up from the back. "I'll be inventorying the suppressors at the end of the day. In case you didn't know, having a suppressor in your possession as a civilian is illegal in this state."

Dunham nods his thanks to Tiny, takes a deep breath and resumes. "Because it will be full daylight, the vampires should be lethargic or completely unresponsive. Even those who've drunk shapeshifter blood will only be able to move around indoors, and since it's a sunny day, they'll be extra slow. The older the vampire, the more they'll be able to move under the influence of shapeshifter blood and sunlight."

Dunham sips his tea again. "We've asked for your aid today because you're faster, stronger and tougher to kill than humans. But none of us is invincible. Always clear rooms in pairs—look under or behind furniture, in closets, check attics, under porches, basements and crawl spaces with flashlights first. Watch each other's backs at all times. Vampires will break necks if they can't bite them."

"Besides Patrick, only Detective Jesseray and I have the addresses we'll be visiting. This is a very secret operation. We do not want the human population informed of the presence of a supernatural community or our mission. That's why our van is disguised to look like a parcel delivery service. We don't want civilians alarmed or involved at all. If any human approaches you, please tell them to return to their homes and lock the doors for their own safety. What are your questions?"

There are a few. Dunham handles them with aplomb.

When no more questions surface, Tiny calls from the back row to load up. As I go out the door, Kennedy hands me a helmet, Kevlar vest and shield.

He says, "Promise me you'll wear them every time you go in today, DJ," hanging on to the shield as I try to take it, his eyes intent on mine. "I know it'll be a hassle between shifting and getting dressed multiple times."

"I promise, sir." I meet his eyes evenly. "I'll see you when we get back."

"See that you do." He squeezes my arm as I go by.

We all clamber into the back of the UPS-disguised SWAT van. Tiny takes the wheel, and we're off.

I check my phone for messages from my brother or niece. Dang! Where _are_ they? Between this and Ryan, I'm going to be gnawing the onboard bench seat before long.

My mind shifts back to the conversation first thing this morning with my mom. I'm intrigued to learn more about my great-grandmother. I remember hearing only dribbles and dabs about her from my mom and her sister, Aunt Diane. My grandma used to talk about her from time to time, mostly about what a wonderful baker she'd been. I remember making Christmas cookies one time with Grandma, and she told me the cookie cutters we were using were Great-grandmama Fairchilds'. Evidently, her pies were big winners at the county fair. Her cherry devil's food cake was specially requested for the governor's visit when he made a sweep through the region. She'd been a farm wife, birthed twelve children and raised eight to adulthood. I wonder why no one ever talked much about her abilities or practice before...?

But this was the first time I'd heard anyone from my mom's side of the family refer to her as a "serious practitioner." What exactly does that mean? She had spell and lore books, Mom said. Does that mean she was a witch? With real magic spells? If so, no wonder nobody'd said much. Even though the term is now touched with the taint of ridicule and abuse (because of the Salem witch trials), anyone labeled a witch then would have been looked at askance, even in the late nineteenth century. Was it a matter of secrecy? Shame? No one in the family wanted to admit there was a witch among them? Or was it to protect her from persecution or judgment? Back then, too, as a nurse and midwife, she was probably one of the few reliable sources of medical care in a small rural community. Nobody would want to get on her bad side by accusing her of being a witch. So, would it be better if it hadn't come out at all? Which is why her family didn't discuss it much? Had she tried to teach any of her children what she knew? If so, who? My curiosity is definitely in high gear.

Hmm. I wonder about my cloud of calm and the little "Don't see me" song I'd been singing yesterday. Were they spells? I'd just thought of them as little instinctive wishes, visualization exercises. Maybe I'd been doing magic all along and never knew it. _Rii-iiiight, DJ_ , I mock myself. _You're doing magic_. I shrug mentally back at the cynical inner voice. _Stranger things have happened._ _No joke,_ the cynical side admits. Isn't this supposed to be how you know you're going insane—when you start having conversations with yourself? Does it only count if you have them out loud?

The van stops. What? We haven't been on the road for very long.

"I thought we were going straight to Burnsville," I say over the radio on the private channel to Tiny.

"Slight change of plans. We're stopping at the Summit Avenue address first since it's so close... _and_ so close to the governor's mansion. We want to eliminate that threat first."

This was the first address I checked yesterday. I guess dealing with the threat close to the governor makes sense. But—nice that I was informed. Thanks, guys. But, hey, I'm just the supernatural muscle. Just like everyone else in the back.

Still on the private channel, I ask, "Tiny, did Assistant Agent in Charge Lawson have access to the exact addresses we're visiting today?"

He replies, "Not that I know of. I didn't get this one from Patrick until we got in the van."

I lean over to Patrick. "Did Lawson ask you for the addresses we're going to?"

"Yes, but, his need-to-know was considered the same as Lieutenant Kennedy's. Not necessary until after the fact. We want any leaks stopped before they start." 'We' meaning the Pack. Yeah, they definitely have a vested interest in the outcome of today's raids. If my kid was missing, I'd feel the same way. Speaking of which, I check my cell one more time before turning it off. Still nothing from either Matt or Ashley. _Damn_.

"Anytime today, Detective Jesseray." Tiny's voice drawls over the private channel.

After a mental flip-off in his direction, I zip up the hoodie, wriggle out of the rest of my clothes and shift. House cat again. Nimble, climbing claws, small enough to squeeze into spaces, definitely the right choice. I struggle out of the hoodie...yes, I'm still not comfortable with people I don't know seeing me naked. My co-workers either. Post-shift, I slink out of the hoodie, Dunham cracks the van's back door, and I slip out.

The back gate is locked this time, big surprise. The pile of ash in the back yard probably prompted that. I trot over to the trash bin, jump up, then to the top of the fence and down into the yard to give the back yard, garage, and foundation a good sniff over. No vampire under the porch today and no helpless terrified victim. Fresh vampire scent up the back steps, though. I return to the van, hop in, wiggle into my hoodie and shift.

"Fresh scent, good to go," I announce over the private channel, turn around and finish dressing as everyone else exits. Last, true to my word to Lieutenant Kennedy, I don the vest, helmet, and pick up the shield, stuff a stake in my vest's pocket, and I'm out the back door again. Someone used a pry bar on the back gate, and all but four of the team are deployed along the back walk in two lines. The other four in less obtrusive gear have circled around to the front. Patrick hands me the warrant, and I ascend the porch and knock on the door.

Footsteps approach. A curtain over the door's window twitches aside to show a pair of eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. I show my badge and the warrant. The eyes widen.

"MSP PD. Open up, please." Instantly, bullets pour through the door. Two shooters. I duck behind the shield in time. Several of us flanking the door raise our shields around it as others bring up the ram and pound the door open.

I'm the first one through. I rush one of the shooters, who's trying to reload. A good hard shove pins him against the fridge with my shield. Dunham's wrestling with the second shooter. Patrick taps the guy's head with a gun butt and does the same for my shooter. Everyone else streams in behind as I disarm the guy. I spin him around and get cuffs on him while he's still woozy. He's taller than me by an inch or so, slim, early twenties, dark haired in a navy polo and Dockers. I push him into a chair at a cheap wooden dinette set on a peeling linoleum floor. Ritzy address, but the inside needs a serious updating.

"Where are the other captives?" I slap his cheeks lightly. Thundering footsteps echo through the house but no more gunshots.

He opens his eyes and spews invective. Dunham deposits his handcuffed shooter in a second chair, steps up to my shooter and motions me on. I spot a couple of doors off the kitchen. One's a closet, the other, a basement. Oh, good, another basement—with an open doorway at the bottom of the stairs. No stench knocks me over this time, though. Gratitude engulfs me.

I find a light switch just inside the doorway to the basement and call Dunham over for backup. The stairs are old, wooden and worn in the center of the treads. We descend, rough rock wall to our left, wood panel on the right. There's a big open room at the bottom; black garbage bags edged with duct tape cover the windows.

A body ricochets off mine as I come around the corner. My shield clatters to the floor. My gun's ripped away. It's a female vampire. I recognize her scent from the night before. She'd been the one who bolted down the alley.

"You!" She shouts and leaps, arms reaching for my throat. I throw an up-block and deliver a punch to her gut. Yep, the word's out about me. She didn't try for the bite even though my neck's unprotected. Dunham careens off a nearby wall, grappling with a big male vampire.

The vampire staggers back, goes for a gun tucked into the small of her back. I cannon into her before she can draw. Knock her down. Then, I trip over my feet to fall directly on her. We roll on the floor, punching and gouging.

Then I remember. The stake. I grab it out of my vest's pocket and ram it toward her ribcage. She stiff-arms me and arches away from the stake. I sweep her arm away, lunging in with the stake—under her ribcage. She's ash. Finally. I wipe sweat from my eyes and get up, hands on my knees, panting. My eyes seek out the commotion I'm hearing.

Across the room, Dunham and his vampire are on the floor, doing their best to pummel the other into oblivion. I root around on the floor, find my gun and stroll over to the struggling men. Wait for it...wait for it...there's the heart shot. Pull the trigger. Dunham lies gasping and spitting, a pile of ash on top of him.

He glares at me. "Did you ever think that bullet might go through him and into me?"

I shrug, hiding a grin at his reaction. He's usually so blasé. "Wooden ammo, and you're wearing a vest."

"What if you'd missed and hit me in the head? You could have killed me!" His eyes nearly shoot sparks.

I arch an eyebrow. "I don't miss. I practice at the range, remember? Weekly."

"Bugger the range." What's with him? First time he's been saved by a girl? Or just working off some nerves? Probably that. Dunham doesn't strike me as the big ego type.

"You're welcome."

"For what?"

"Ashing that vampire for you."

"Oh." He looks disgruntled. "Thanks." I hold out a hand and help him to his feet.

I plant my hands on my hips and look around. "That was harder than it had to be. Where the hell is everybody else?"

"Oh. Was I supposed to relay the need for backup?"

"Second man in usually does."

"Oh. I didn't know. Sorry." He's sheepish. And he's the one who led the briefing. He hasn't been in _too_ many of these kinds of actions. Supernatural expert, yeah. Law enforcement? Former military? No.

"Now you do. No biggie. We handled it."

Six cots occupy the room's center, all but two occupied by vampires. The rotten blood, dust and ashes scent is unmistakable. Obviously, these are younger vampires because they weren't up and around. By their clothes, they were middle-class and young when turned. Two males, two females. Their stillness is eerie—no breathing, no slight snores.

I pull out my phone and select the camera app and snap photos of each face as a record of their identities. In the lens, their young faces show closed eyes, mouths slightly open and fanged. Their next of kin might be able to identify them with a little help from PhotoShop to hide the fangs. Their pallor, sunken eyes and cheeks show clearly that they're dead, though. Then, we take out our stakes and put them to work.

We emerge from the basement and haul Horn-rim and his co-shooter with us to the living room.

The house is all old dark woodwork and dark paint, rendering the inside dim and very conducive to day-walking vampires. The dining room has a built-in china cupboard and buffet but no table. They obviously aren't into entertaining _or_ fine dining. Garage-sale furniture in the living room—this is a very low-budget enterprise on the whole. A big change from what we saw in North Oaks yesterday. I wonder why.

The rest of the team is there with six captives, all teens or college-age. No shapeshifters. The captives are all reeling from the loss of their enslavers, pale from blood loss and anemia.

I nudge Dunham. "Does your blood work on humans like it does on young shapeshifters?"

He nods, "I gave a pint last night for the medics to have on hand at the 'nursing home.'" Good planning, that.

Patrick descends the stairs off the living room with a preteen female body in his arms, long dark hair streaming over his arm. The ring on her left hand. I recognize it. I gave it to her for her last birthday. Ashley. _Oh. My. God._

## Chapter 10

My heart's in my throat as I rush toward Patrick. "Is she alive?"

Patrick nods and puts her down on the couch. Frantically, I examine her. Femoral artery. She's twelve, her young body just starting to bud under the Snoopy Dance Your Heart Out sleep outfit. Filthy freaks—not only vicious, blood-sucking freaks but pedophiles too. I've never seen her so pale, but her pulse is strong. I can't keep myself from stroking her face. F-bombs burst in my head.

Dunham's telling Tiny to call in the ambulances and techs. No coroner's wagons needed this trip, thank God.

I turn to Horn-rim.

"When did they bring her in?"

He's barely conscious from the shock of his enslaver's ended existence. Dunham shakes him, slaps his cheeks lightly.

"Just before dawn." His words are slurred.

"Who gave the order?"

"Big boss." Pause. "Called Dirk after three." His eyes roll back. Dunham shakes him.

"Took...a while to find her."

"What was Dirk wearing?"

He describes it in broken sentences. I rush back to the basement, search through the clothes and ashes. There's Dirk's cell. Quickly, I scroll through the calls. Only one call came in around three. Name? Vance. I collect the other phones, too, wondering what's on _their_ voicemail. I take the basement stairs two at a time and slide onto the floor next to Ashley. All I can see is her face, wan, eyelids nearly translucent. _And._ She's breathing. _Thank God._

As the team shuffles the limp and falling captives around onto the living room furniture, I call Kennedy.

"I found my niece, Ashley, here, Lieutenant. At the Summit house. I want her taken to the nursing home so she can be dosed and treated. Then, after her wounds have closed—yeah, Dunham's blood works wonders—I want her taken to Children's Hospital. Would you monitor her and let me know when that's done? I'll call my brother after that. We'll have her out of town by nightfall." My heart's rebounding off my ribcage. We hadn't even known she was missing.

Kennedy makes assuring noises.

"I recovered four vampires' cell phones here. One of the shooters says that the call to pick up Ashley came in around three this morning. Their former leader's cell phone shows one call at that time from a guy named Vance. A former slave called him the big boss. Is there any way our tech gurus can figure out where this call came from? The phone number's on there—does it link to a GPS code on that phone? If it's got one?"

Kennedy's making puzzled noises now. I'm only half-hearing him because most of my attention's on Ashley. "I'll leave the phones for the techs. The leader's phone is red."

Kennedy says something else. I make acknowledging noises, and we disconnect. All I can see is Ashley's still face. And it's my fault. They went after her because of me. And I thought they would. I just didn't have the time, the energy or the focus to get her to safety. _Dammit_. Too much happening too fast. I'm so mad at myself that I'm shaking.

Dunham leans over my shoulder. "Would you like me to dose her right now? So she can leave town sooner?"

"Would you?" He nods and bites the inside of his cheek. I call Kennedy and let him know the change in plans. He says he thinks Jordy could monitor Ashley until someone from my family gets there.

I call my oldest brother, Matt. He picks up. Finally.

"Matt. Did you get my voice mail message?" I turn away from the crowd in the living room and enter the kitchen.

"Hey, sis. Nope, what's up?"

I brace myself. "Ashley's been kidnapped and injured. She's safe now, and she's going to be at Children's Hospital. You need to get down here and take her home today."

Matt explodes with questions.

I have my story ready. "She's okay, just some blood loss and disorientation from being drugged. She's been unconscious since I found her so she probably won't remember me. I'm working a really heavy case that just blew up in the last few days. Anyone from my family in the area is in danger. She needs to be out of the cities as soon as possible. Could your buddy with the airplane fly you down?"

"I'll be there before noon. Deej, are you okay?" Matt's voice is calm now, more like his normal self.

I exit the house into the backyard. "No, I'm not. Ryan was kidnapped two days ago, and I've been injured myself. This is bad, really bad. In fact, I've been told that I shouldn't expect to go back to my old life after this."

"Since Ryan's been kidnapped, the FBI's involved?"

"At the highest level."

"Holy crap, girl. Whatever you do, stay alive. I need at least a couple more smack downs with you before we get too old." I can almost see his grin.

Some tension melts from my shoulders. "I don't really know how this is going to shake out. I had no clue it would get this intense. These people are so dangerous that it's not even safe to be me anymore."

"Are you saying you might have to go into hiding? Like Witness Protection?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Hmmm." He pauses. "Remember the family livechat, okay? I'll call Chris and get him to soup up the security on it again and spread the word to everyone else. We won't panic until we don't hear from you for a week, okay? Check in once a day with one of us while you can, okay?"

"Sure." I feel relieved. I haven't been out on the family livechat for a while, but that'll be one way for sure I can keep in touch with them if things go completely south. Like if I'm running for my life. My mouth dries.

"Look, Matt, I've got to go. I'm in the middle of a big operation today so I can't be with Ashley. But my supervisor, Lieutenant Kennedy, is keeping tabs on her. He says my partner, Jordan Burke, will be with her at Children's until you get there."

"Okay, Deej. Thanks for looking out for my little girl."

"There's no way I could do anything different. You know that."

"I know, honey. I love you. Be careful."

"Love you, too. I will." We disconnect.

As I pocket my phone, Burke comes in the back gate. I'm surprised to see him so soon.

"Kennedy had a black-and-white pick me up and drop me off. I'm sorry Ashley got caught up in this." He's pale and appears shaken, but he takes one look at me and opens his arms. I'm in them in a second. The smell of his aftershave mixed with his natural heliotrope scent is a vast comfort.

I whisper, "Jordy, this is getting so crazy. I didn't even know Ashley was missing for sure until we found her here." He leans back and examines my face. "I'm so scared for Ryan. It'll be a miracle if he can come back from this." His face stiffens, and he lets me go. He'll never be happy about Ryan and me.

He meets my eyes squarely. "The lieutenant tells me your team was responsible for pulling my ass from a Rufie fire last night. Did it have anything to do with this hush-hush task force?"

I can't lie to him, not when he's looking at me like that. "Yeah." I check the paint on the garage and then squint into the sun. "Just do me a favor and get inside and stay inside before dark tonight, okay? And don't answer your door or look out your window at night until this is all over, okay?" My eyes are begging him.

He's looking mighty freaked out. "Oooo-kaaaaaay." I'd rather have him that way than in a vampire's bed. Like Ryan is. _Ohmigod,Ryan._ Jordy sees the anguish in my face and puts an arm around my shoulder.

We walk into the house together. Ashley is still unconscious on the couch. Dunham has obviously been busy dosing the victims with his blood because they're all unconscious now.

As I walk over to Ashley with Jordy, the front door opens, and EMTs with gurneys roll in. That's our cue to leave.

Jordy says, "Kennedy called for a bus from Children's. They should be here any minute."

I nod, thank him, and our SWAT group piles out the back door and into the big van. My head is swimming, and it's not even eight in the morning. Tiny's in the back of the van, handing out coffee and sweet rolls. A little caffeine and sugar. Maybe that'll help my poor head. I sling my helmet and shield on the bench seat and grab a roll.

After we settle in to nosh and sip, Tiny fires up the van and takes off.

Dunham sits next to me and pours a good strong tea from a thermos. "We got lucky back there, mates. That was a small nest of relatively young vampires. No old vampires with access to shapeshifter blood. Only two shooters and no silver bullets. Don't expect any other scenes like that today."

Patrick interjects, "They were probably here to take advantage of the transitory college population in the area. There are several colleges in a two-to-four mile radius here: Concordia, Macalester, William Mitchell Law, St. Thomas, St. Catherine's, and Hamline."

I let the rest of the chatter go by me. The team begins making more splat balls. I can't get myself to move. Ashley close call really brings home how dangerous this is for everyone I care about, how deeply my life is going to have to change. Yeah, I probably will have to go into some kind of undercover living after this. Once the vampires spread the word about what my blood can do, safety will be a thing of the past. I'll have contracts taken out on me. Kidnapping a family member to get to me will be routine. And friends? Same. I'm a walking menace to everyone I love. Despair rolls in.

Dunham's kept an eye on me. "What is it?"

"What you said in the car. It's really true, isn't it?"

He thinks back. Nods. "It is."

"How long has it been since you've seen your parents?"

He grimaces. "I'm an orphan."

"Seriously?"

He nods. "The vamps planted a bomb in my parents' auto when they found out I can de-glamour their victims."

Holy crap. "I'm so sorry. No brothers or sisters?"

He scowls. "None I should admit to."

"Ah." A pause. "So...how do you live?"

"Secretly. Judiciously."

"I'm going to have to disappear, aren't I?" My house. My gardens. My kitties. I'm _not_ giving up my cats.

He nods. "Everyone I grew up with thinks I'm dead, detective."

I blow a breath up into my bangs; it's no surprise that I'm sweating. Not glamorous, but not surprising.

He eyes me critically. "You'll need a change in hair color. That's the least of it. You may have to wear contacts to disguise your eyes once your Yank vampires understand what these rayed eyes denote. Maybe some plastic surgery to alter your appearance. Once the shapeshifter metabolism really kicks in, you'll lose some weight, 5 kilos or more."

My eyebrows rise. I'm not pencil thin, but I'm very muscular from my martial arts. Ten plus pounds will make me all muscle.

Dunham touches my cheek, his eyes a caress. "There'll be no more softness here." He looks down then, paying studious attention to his tea and then turns, engaging Patrick in intense conversation about American pack politics.

Off and on over the past couple of days, I've gotten the occasional attraction vibe from him. With Ryan, Ashley and the threat to my family and friends, I'm _so_ not there. Uncomfortable, I shift to the opposite seat and start making splat balls, turning thoughts of leaving my house over in my mind. Where can I go? Raven's house is definitely out. Ryan already knows where she lives and that it'd be the first place I'd go. My stomach is shaking. I get down to serious deep breathing.

After another half hour or so, Tiny stops the van. He calls, "Burnsville, detective. No alleys. You'll need to come out the front." I squirm out of my clothes again and shift inside my hoodie.

As I make for the front to pass by Tiny and out the door he has cracked open for me, I hear one of the shapeshifters chuckle, "Newbie modesty." Maybe someday I won't care about my personal nudity, but not today.

I slide out the door and trot off. It takes me about forty minutes to find the nest because there's a lot of ground to cover. The place in North Oaks had nothing on this McMansion. The owner sank a million dollars or more in the house alone, I bet. It must be five thousand square feet with an in-ground pool; I can smell the chlorine from the driveway. I stop to sniff around the quadruple stall garage with one open door. Yep, honeysuckle, but the scent's fading. There's lots of rotted blood and ash stench—several vampires here, at least five or six slightly different scents. My nose must be getting more refined because I can tell the difference between them. I pause to ponder. A couple have a deeper rotted blood scent and more lye to the ash. Does that mean it's an older vampire? An inner intuition confirms it. I reconnoiter the backyard—a big deck with patio doors on the ground and second levels. Done.

I streak across the backyards of the last several houses I've checked and across the road and through the yard of the first house I scouted. There's the van. I climb into the front where my hoodie and sweats await me on the floor. A white flash later, and I'm scrambling into my clothes.

"It's over a couple of blocks, Tiny." Oops, wrong smell. It's Dunham in a cute brown shorts outfit this time. His long legs are fish-belly white. I stifle a snicker. He glares down at me.

"I'm not used to driving Yank style, detective. Don't distract me." I bite my lip to hide my smile and direct him. He takes it very slowly. He's noticeably gawking out the windows, his head bobbing to find house numbers. Good thinking.

Donning my helmet, I call the results of my foray to everyone in the back and tell Dunham the house number. Voices rumble in the back as they work out deployment. After turning the corner and driving a few minutes, Dunham stops in front of the house. He jumps out and opens the van's back door to block the view of the house's front door from the neighbors across the street as much as possible. He collects an innocuous-looking package that contains a loaded crossbow with a hole in the bottom that lets him fire through the box. He adds the LED clipboard to the top and moves off. While he strolls up the walk to the front door, the shapeshifters peel out of the van's back, half taking up stances below the front windows out of sight of the front door. The other sneak around the garage and into the backyard.

My strategy is to shift back into tabby form. My first priority is to sniff out Ryan. Frankly, I don't trust my control this close to where Ryan could be. Once inside the house, if they need me, I can become a tiger: fangs, claws and hundreds of pounds of feline fury. I slink out of the van and thread my way through the bushes and other plantings to just outside the front door.

Dunham rings the doorbell. Footsteps. A pause at the peephole. A woman opens the door: early thirties, short sleeved shirt and pressed khaki shorts. One sniff tells me she's a human who smells of vampire. She's one of the enslaved.

Dunham smiles. "A package for you, ma'am. If you would just sign here...." He proffers the clipboard. I zip into the house, paws silent on the ceramic tile entryway floor.

I hear her say "Oh, a cat! Get it..." just before a fist thud against her jaw—much rustling from behind me. Dunham's probably caught and set her back against the wall.

Movement from the next room. Light carpet under my paws. Two legs move slowly from a couch to the floor.

"Chloe?" An oily vampire voice; I yowl a warning. "What's that cat...?"

I hear Dunham enter the living room.

The vampire yells, "Intruders!" before the crossbow twangs. Ash patters around me on the floor, and the box thuds down.

Dunham whispers, "Detective, what're you doing?" I smell gun oil as he draws his weapon.

The shapeshifters are in. One hands Dunham a spare shield and helmet. Two race toward the back of the house to let in the ones from the backyard. Then, all hell breaks loose. Bullets fly, and our guys aren't the only ones shooting.

I have only one thing on my mind, Ryan. I crouch low and make for the carpeted stairs to an upper level. Two shooters fire from that level. I slide next to the wall as I ascend. The bullets are coming from over my head and around both corners.

"Nobody notices a little cat, nobody notices a little cat," I'm singing in my head and projecting my little "don't see me cloud" above and over me. Once at the top of the stairs I crouch and glide by feet in feminine shoes. Behind the shooter at a ninety degree angle is an open hallway with several doors. But, business first. A flash of white. I'm leaping for the woman's neck as she turns. A snap of my jaws and a twist; her head's on the floor, eyelashes fluttering as the skull caves in to ash. I spit the rotted blood taste from my mouth and head down the hall. The doors are mostly closed and padlocked. At least four doors have shapeshifters behind them, according to my nose. Two doors at the end of the hall, however, are open. One sniff in a doorway reveals a scent like my victim. The other—Ryan! A great leap in reveals a rumpled bed. I sniff the sheets: Ryan, vampire...and sex. My guts twist. But he's not here.

Where _is_ he? In a basement? Like the one in North Oaks? Panic takes me. I race out and down the hallway. The other vampire across the landing is still firing. Without thinking, I gather all my strength and _leap_. Horror can transfix even a death's head face.

The impact causes him to drop his gun, but he lunges for my neck and gets a mouthful of fur, skin and blood. I rip his head off before the fire can consume him. A dark satisfaction blooms as I spit the ash and rotted blood taste out again.

With one leap, I'm at the landing, another, the entryway, and another, the living room. Dunham is now at the kitchen doorway along with Patrick. Bullets rain, and the noise is deafening.

Nothing is keeping me from Ryan. I shift again into the tabby. He's been here. If he's not up there, then he's got to be in the basement. I thrust images of the North Oaks' basement from my mind. _I will not go there. I will_ not _go there. Insanity waits there._

I slip between Dunham's legs as he gets a shot off that hits someone. Curses flow from the doorway to a beautiful formal dining room of polished birds-eye maple, now shot to splinters. Two forms flank that doorway. Dunham reaches down for my tail to stop me as I creep around the corner. One twitch whips it out of reach. Over my shoulder, I hiss at him. Another turn finds me creeping along the closed doors on the front of a cooking island. The shooters in the dining room can't see me because the doorway is directly across from Dunham and Patrick's. I sneak a glance up and around the final corner to see a death's head glaring above me across at Dunham and Patrick.

I'm singing my "nobody notices a little cat" song again. One shapeshifter body in SWAT gear lies by the patio doors next to a breakfast nook. He'd taken a round to the eye. That's a kill shot even without silver.

My tabby form is pressed against the cupboards next to the doorway now. "Nobody notices a little cat, nobody notices a little cat." I slip around the braced feet of the man closest to me. A human this time. The one across from him is the vampire. I ghost around shattered chair legs, avoiding glass from the ruined china hutch to come up behind the vampire. I hunker behind an overturned chair and shift. A white flash. The human and vampire are turning. Patrick and Dunham shout as they charge across the kitchen floor, holding their shields high. With one leap, I take the vampire. With one snap of my jaws, I yank my head back and rip his off. A gunshot. Fire scores my side. Ash clouds the air as I fall onto the disintegrating vampire.

Patrick rams the enslaved human with his shield. Dunham reaches for the shooter's gun, then ducks as it fires. Patrick lunges for the gun hand with a growl, grasps the wrist and breaks it. The man screams and grips his arm in pain. Regardless of the man's discomfort, Patrick slaps cuffs on him.

I get to my feet and lumber into the kitchen and paw at the basement door's knob.

Dunham regards me. "You haven't found Cathcart?" I shake my head.

All's silent now. No gunfire. Half a dozen shapeshifters come in through the door to the garage. Several more enter through the door off the kitchen.

"Three vamps down in the garage. They left through a door from the basement that exits into the garage." A cougar shifter reports. "One of the cars has illegally tinted window glass."

"Two vamps upstairs. One here. Three out there. That's six." Patrick gazes sadly at the shapeshifter's body on the floor.

Dunham follows his gaze. "Keep those shields in front of your faces at all times, mates."

I claw impatiently at the basement door. Dammit, Ryan's down there! I shift again to the tabby. It seems to take a long time. Dunham's eyes assess me when I come out of the light.

"Detective, you're injured. Shift back to human form please, so we can treat you." I shake my head and jab desperately at the basement door. Dunham sighs, opens it. I'm through and down the steps at a run, fire slashing up my side with every step. A light comes on over my head. Another door at the bottom of the steps blocks my way. I paw at it. _Ryan, I'm coming!_

As footsteps descend toward me, I leap at the knob with my front paws, yowling in pain as I land. Dunham opens the door. The stench is overwhelming. Dunham finds a light switch above and to the left of my head. In the light's clarity, the room is an abattoir, worse than North Oaks. Multiple bodies hang upside down from hooks on the walls, throats ripped open, and their blood collecting in vast pools along the walls. All the cages are open. Not one is left alive. The vampires killed everyone before they left for the garage.

In a panic, I'm running, running, running from cage to cage, body to body, even the day or two or three old corpses.

No Ryan. Anguish and despair swamp me. Control starts to slip. I dig in mental claws and hang on by their very tips. White engulfs me for a long time. Then, I'm back in the real world, flooded with confusion, relief, horror. An agonizing pain in my side. I'm thrashing in a welter of pain.

A warm hand cups my head. Blackness swarms over me.

When I wake, I'm in human form, lying on the living room couch. Someone has kindly protected my modesty with a blanket. Patrick's on his knees by my side, twisting something in my flesh.

"OW!" I try to sit up. Dunham's right there, holding my arms over my head. Another shapeshifter's holding my feet. "OW! Dammit, what're you doing?"

Patrick sits back on his heels brandishing a bloody, misshapen slug in a pair of long tweezers. "Silver" is his verdict. "This bunch was prepared for shapeshifters. If this was the master vampire's former nest, it makes sense that he'd do his best to protect it even while making himself scarce."

Dunham's glaring at me upside down. "Never shift when you've been shot with silver. You could get stuck in that form until it's out. Lucky for us you weren't in tiger form when Patrick was trying to extract that bullet."

"You'll be healing human-slow from it, detective." Patrick tacks on. He plasters a gauze pad with Neosporin and tapes it to my side. "Lucky that you took the round in tiger form, though. If you'd been in house cat form, you'd need an operating table."

"Where's Ryan?" Yes, I have a one-track mind.

"Not here, I'm sorry to say," That's Tiny's voice.

"He was here once. I smelled him in an upstairs bedroom." Studiously, I avoid all eye contact; I can't bear to see their pity.

"The vampire who enslaved our children wasn't here either," Patrick adds. "Dunham had to dose everyone in the rooms upstairs three times. They came out those doors shifted and fighting."

I sit up slowly, holding my blanket carefully in place. No wonder Dunham looks worse for the wear. His hair clumps in straggling locks around his head. The brown shirt and shorts show rips and stains.

"Two wolves, a fox and a cougar upstairs," the shapeshifter formerly holding my feet reports. "One is Mike's daughter. He gave his life to free her."

"I was so sure Ryan was here." I'm completely bewildered, almost tearful. "My friend who douses said it showed him here at dawn this morning as well as last night."

"Well, we know he was in your back yard last night," Tiny offers.

My eyes beseech Dunham. He sighs. "It's hard to say when the shift from human to vampire really is, detective. It could be that Agent Cathcart was his most human self here in Burnsville before his captor administered the second exchange of blood last night."

I nod. It's all I can to do to keep from dropping my head to let my hair hide my face. No, I won't be a coward. If Ryan can endure this in flesh and mind, I can endure it in my heart.

From the kitchen comes a constant thud of feet and clatter. "Coroners' vans from three counties are out there," Patrick informs my raised eyebrows.

How in the world are the higher ups ever going to spin this story? There were at least fifteen dead in that basement.

What a horror these vampires are. They have no respect for human life at all. If what I saw in my dream last night has any foundation, they get off on defiling what's beautiful. The look in that vampire's eyes told me that he _wanted_ our excitement about and love for each other—the utter joy of living that we have when we're together. No, I don't think he wanted to cherish it but to rip it from us, shred it, ruin it. I wonder if the reason the vampires want me so badly isn't to kill me, but to make me watch as they despoil Ryan right before my eyes. _God in heaven, help him!_ I plead from the depths of my soul.

Then I remember...my mother had told me my great-grandmother used to dream about people the night before they died. _No, no, no_ —an internal scream echoes through my being.

Patrick rises from his crouch and finds a chair, Dunham too. The other shapeshifters gather around, seat themselves on the floor or lean against the walls and fireplace.

"We have some decisions to make," Tiny announces. "We have one dead and one injured. Do we continue on?"

All eyes are on me. "I can't shift right now." I bite my lip. "I've tried, and it's just not in me. I can fire a gun but don't count on me to take point, though."

"It's the silver," Patrick informs me. "It's worked its way into your bloodstream now. You won't be able to shift for a couple of days. I've got a cleanse you can drink to hurry its progress out of your body."

"Could another smaller shapeshifter do the reconnaissance for us? Like a fox or weasel? Rat?" I wonder.

One of the cougar shapeshifters speaks up, "I know a grateful fox family we could approach."

Patrick nods and takes out his cell. After a brief conversation, he says, "Our rescuee's older brother will meet us at the SuperTarget in Northeast Minneapolis."

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Nine."

"Then, let's go."

And we went. The rest of the day is a blur of gunfire, stabbing stakes, crossbow bolts, splat balls, fighting, gaping vampire mouths, the frantically defending enslaved and far too many pitiful corpses. In our SWAT group, the shapeshifter crew changed out twice throughout the day at eleven and four, each new shift getting deputized. But Tiny, Patrick, Dunham and I stay on. We make it to all of the other known addresses before seven that evening. During the intervening time, we free nearly eighty humans and ten more shapeshifters—three or four from out of town that the pack hadn't known about—and find nearly forty corpses, if not more. The team also ashes four or so dozen vampires and lose two more adult shapeshifters, one to a neck broken by a vampire, another to a round to the face.

But we find no more sign of Ryan.

Anywhere.

I'm exhausted and in pain from the wound. Patrick, who'd been a military medic, shot me up with painkillers six times, but the shapeshifter metabolism chews through it like a mouse through cardboard.

By seven thirty, we've all gathered at the FBI's Resident Agency on Fifth Street. John Ramsey is there, supporting Patrick who's nearly as pale as I am. He took a silver slug to the leg at the very last house; Dunham extracted the bullet that time.

Kennedy, McLaughlin, the police chief, and another FBI bigwig are at the table when we limp in. Kennedy meets me in the doorway to tell me that Matt and Ashley flew out around two this afternoon. Once we're all settled, Dunham and Tiny make our report.

McLaughlin sighs. "After all that, no Agent Cathcart?"

Multiple shaken heads. God help him, no.

It's agony being stoic. This is the third night. I was so sure we'd find him today. My mind refused to contemplate the true import until now. I was so sure, so determined.....

Tonight my Ryan will become a vampire because I didn't find him. I didn't save him. I didn't look hard enough. Fight hard enough. Work hard enough. Wasn't resourceful enough. My beautiful, honorable, steadfast, loyal Ryan. A blood-sucking evil monster.

Ramsey rises, comes to sit next to me and takes my hand. On my other side, Dunham takes the other.

_Dammit_. I can take anything but sympathy. A tear rolls.

## Chapter 11

In the conference room at the Resident Agency, voices wash over me, detailing the losses, the numbers, possible fallout. They discuss what the public reaction is, how the spin is working, speculate on the vampires' next moves, their overall threat level in the Twin Cities now. The fact that shapeshifters' scent is all over the houses we raided today. That police tape binds and tiny crosses surround them all. The message is clear; the human war machine knows of the supernatural, and they side with the shapeshifters against vampires.

I'm beyond caring. But. I got the tears stopped after the first trickle. I can't let my façade completely crack here; there are too many unknowns in the FBI camp.

Dunham and Tiny have both cleaned their guns, loaded them and reloaded their extra clips with the wooden-centered rounds. Gun oil perfumes the air. Dunham holds out his hand for my gun; I pass him that and my emptied spare clips. Everyone at the table is working over their firearms. Kevlar's everywhere, vests and collars. The vampires will be out for every drop of our blood once they discover how many of their houses are empty.

Ramsey leans over. "Detective, I want you to stay at my house tonight. I've got protections no vampire can get through. Every inch of my property is salted with crosses. Even the trees."

Kennedy adds, "We've been taking that precaution with all of our own homes and VIP residences."

I nod. Tiny and Dunham agree to accompany me to my house to pick up my stuff. It's after eight by the time the higher ups decide they can survive without us.

Outside, a breeze picks up my lank hair and blows it into my mouth and eyes. Cloud castles lumber toward us. Tiny turns on the radio once we've buckled up. There've been tornados to the west of us. The National Weather Service reports a severe thunderstorm warning coming our way.

Once again the ride is silent. This time exhaustion is the cause, not unease or distrust.

Ryan's last moments alive gnaw at me like a beaver's teeth, sharp, yellow and relentless as hell. It's happening in these very moments. The clouds give the vampires more leeway in their day—Ryan, even less in his life.

Does he even realize what's happening? Is he so be-glamoured that he doesn't know what's being stolen from him? Any chance for a normal life, house, kids, love. Me. Our life together. Will anything inside him mourn that? Is there anything left of him at all?

We pull in next to my garage. Everything aches as I step out of the SUV. Clouds completely obscure the setting sun. That pesky breeze is still blowing from the west. A fleeting memory tickles. I reach for it. It evades, taunts me from behind my exhaustion...it's no use.

I unlock the door and let Dunham and Tiny in. Both guys immediately start pulling shades and closing curtains. No vampire peeping Toms allowed. I request that someone get the cat carriers from the basement and the other person the cats' overnight accommodations bag from the bottom of the linen closet—food and water bowls, mini-litter box and gallon zip-top bags of cat food and litter. Since Ryan and the master vampire know where my house is, I'm not leaving my cats here overnight.

I know. It sounds stupid, paranoid, weird. They're just cats, right? But. I've lost too much today. I won't take the chance of losing them, too.

The kitty boys are more used to the big scary guys now. Instead of heading for their basement sanctuary, they follow me into my room, bells on their collars gently tinging. They always snoopervise while I pack. An open suitcase requires a feline inspection squad. It's the rule.

I hear the back door open and shut, cat accommodations being loaded into the SUV.

Not sure what tomorrow might bring, I'd better pack options. If I were keeping my normal schedule, I'd have the day off. Jeans and semi-dressy shirt. Tee shirt, pair of shorts. Workout shorts and sports bra. Good bra, undies, a travel-knit bronze-colored suit and blouse in case of a bigwig meeting. Sleep shirt. Short terry front-zip robe. Socks, tennies, Shoes and accessories to match the suit and jeans outfits. Toiletries from the dresser and bathroom. Throw in my laptop, phone charger and the book I'm currently reading. Filling my mind with minutiae keeps the grief at bay.

I shoo the cats off of the suitcase's lid and zip it shut. Roll it out to the dining room. Reach for Cody to put him in the cat carrier. Dunham gets the more sedate cat, Petey, who's not real sure about this stranger picking him up. Dunham strokes him and whispers sweet nothings. Dunham's feline. He gets it.

The doorbell rings. Tiny moves to the living room drapes, looks out.

"It's Ryan."

My whole body clenches. Cody bites my thumb—an instinctive reaction to both my ferocious squeeze and the sudden tension. His fangs sink deep. Ow! I shove him into the cat carrier. Petey hisses and struggles. Dunham drops him, and the cat races for the basement.

"Is he...?" I ask Tiny, hope and dread at war in my mind.

Dropping the curtain, Tiny shrugs tensely. "I can't tell."

"Let me see." Dunham goes for a drape, peers out. Drops it. Shakes his head.

F-bombs explode from me. Better than tears right now.

Dunham holds up his hands. "Try to stay calm, detective. What do you want to do?"

The doorbell rings again.

"I can't..." I'm starting to hyperventilate. I take one deep breath. Then another. And another. "I can't leave him like that. He'd...never want to be...that."

Saliva floods my mouth. I lunge for a wastebasket. Vomit. I'm going to have to kill Ryan. No, that's not Ryan, I remind myself insistently. It's the monster that master vampire turned his body into. Ryan's already dead. He's gone.

"He's probably got back up," Dunham predicts.

Tiny pulls his silenced Beretta. Gestures to the stairs to the upper half story. "I'll stomp the floor when I'm in position. I'll open the window when I hear you open the door. So, open it really slow. Stomp when you make your move."

Dunham asks, "Are you going to invite him in?"

Gritting my teeth, I nod.

Dunham whips over to the front door to yank the tiny crosses from around the door.

My thumb's bleeding. I shake my hand; Cody really got me. Dunham hands me a stake. I slide it into my hoodie's pocket. A foot bangs the floor overhead.

I approach the door, teeth clenched, and turn on the outside light. Dunham presses himself against the wall next to the door, his Browning's barrel with suppressor pointed up. I unsnap the locks, turn on the outside light, grasp the knob and slowly twist it. My worst nightmare is coming true.

I look through the screen. Because the door swings out, the achingly familiar stands one step down. He's attired in a beautifully tailored navy GQ suit, which he could have never afforded on his salary. His wavy light brown hair shows above the death's head mask. That bright blue shirt should bring out the blue in his eyes, but green fire pulses in his eye sockets instead.

God help him. God help me.

I fight a gag reflex, swallow more vomit-anticipatory saliva. Can I do this? I have to. For him.

"Hello, darling." His voice now has an oily edge. He's never called me 'darling.' Ever.

I swallow again. Stiffen my spine.

"Hello." My voice is dead. I can't call this thing by Ryan's name. Something deep inside is shrieking in abject horror.

"Aren't you glad to see me? Haven't you missed me?" He steps up to the screen, close enough that I can see the edges of scars on his neck under the collar of his shirt.

My lips are numb. Blackness starts to close in on the edges of my vision. Don't faint. Keep it together, girl. Ryan just needs you to do this one last thing for him. Breathe.

"Of course." It isn't hard to fake the glaze-eyed stupor of the glamoured.

Outside the porch light's perimeter, I make out four shadowy figures. I put my hand behind my back, out of Ryan's view, toward Dunham. Four fingers. In my peripheral vision, I see Dunham nod.

"May I come in? You look like you could use a hug." The smell coming off of him penetrates—rotted blood, ash...honeysuckle, overripe and moldy. I swallow convulsively. Still really need to puke. Dear God, give me the strength to honor Ryan's life by ending this thing that's stolen his beautiful flesh.

Dunham moves behind the drapes.

I open the screen door. "Come in."

He steps in. The four figures behind draw in closer. Four vampires, all male. One's holding another male figure in front of him.

"You're so beautiful, darling. I've missed you so."

"Who's that with you?"

He glances over his shoulder. "Oh, just some new friends and my mentor."

Now I can see the man held by one of the vampires. It's Lawson.

"Isn't that your boss?"

"Oh, he's an old friend of my mentor's. I'll explain more in a little while. Here, let me hold you." Ryan's arms open to embrace me, head angling for a kiss.

I reach up, as if to cup his face. His breath smells of blood.

I whisper, lips an inch away from his, my voice shaking, "I'm so very sorry. I did everything I could to save you." And I wipe my bleeding thumb down his cheek.

That ugly death's head jerks back, fanged maw opening to scream. My breath catches on a sob as I whip out the stake. Jam it up under his ribcage, stomping the floor. I jump to my left as Ryan's body explodes into ash. Dunham lunges from behind the drape and fires through the screen. The Beretta coughs above.

From upstairs, Tiny yells, "Get Lawson!"

Dunham leaps out the door. I draw my silenced gun and spray the yard with bullets. Dunham scoops up Lawson from a pile of ash and hauls ass back through the door I'm holding open. Tiny's laying down cover fire from above.

I slam the door behind Dunham and lock it. Something thumps against the door.

Lawson's semi-conscious. Dunham pulls out Lawson's shirt collar. Old bite scars.

"I wonder how long he was a slave...?" Dunham mutters darkly. He ducks as bullets spray through the front windows.

I sniff. "Silver?" My voice quavers. _Focus on surviving, DJ._ The memory of my father's calm voice saying that overlays my inner one. Something inside me settles.

"Oh, yes, definitely silver." Dunham pulls Lawson into the dining room.

Tiny tears down the stairs. His eyes widen at the sight of Lawson, semi-conscious. "Shit!"

"Yes." Dunham pulls out Lawson's collar again.

Tiny lets go an f- bomb.

"How many of the vamps did you hit?" I ask.

"Two," Tiny offers. "Including the one holding Lawson."

"I don't know." Dunham rolls his eyes at his lack of shooting skills.

I take charge. "Tiny, you keep the shooter occupied while Dunham and I get Lawson out to the SUV. Keys?" _The really hard part's done_ , I remind myself.

Tiny reaches in his pocket, flings the keys at me as he runs to the window. He nudges the drape and blind aside, raises the window sash and sniffs. "They've thrown something on fire at the front door. I smell gasoline."

Dunham and I both curse. "It's a steel-core door. Aluminum storm door. Cement steps. It'll take a while to catch anything on fire."

"Move it," Tiny snarls, snapping off shots through the window.

Dunham's got Lawson in a fireman's carry and is halfway through the kitchen.

"Dunham, wait." I grab the occupied cat carrier and slide by him. "Let me go first."

I open the door and take a gander through the screen. Nothing's moving. A hard sniff reveals no vampires yet. I open the storm door, sliding the stop over to keep it open and hit the ground running, fob the SUV's locks, open a back door for Dunham and Lawson. I run to the back, open it. Shove in the cat carrier. I sprint back in, grab my suitcase and throw it out the door to Dunham.

"I'm changing," he yells, "I can take silver better in that form."

I dart back inside, grab the second cat carrier and head into the basement, calling for my terrified kitty. I'm _not_ letting those bastards kill him, too.

Upstairs, I hear glass shatter, once, twice, three times. Tiny shouts, "Get outta here!" His footsteps pound through the dining room and kitchen floors above my head.

I'm smelling smoke, big-time as I'm calling my kitty. "C'mere, baby. Come to mama." I hear the collar bell jingle. Where is he?

"C'mere, honey. Let's get out of here." Collar bell again. There, to my left in the laundry room. "Honey, c'mere." Jingle. I flip the light switch and check under the table. "Petey, honey, c'mere sweetie." A frightened yowl comes from behind the washer. _Shit_.

"Jesseray!" Tiny shouts from the top of the stairs.

"Down here."

"Get your ass up here. The whole house is on fire."

_Dammit_.

No time for finesse, I haul the washer away from the wall. Petey skitters into the nearby storage closet. Shit again.

I plunge in after him. The closet's full of boxes. I start throwing them behind me. He's scrambling away from me in a panic. I stumble over a box and fall. It's pitch black in the closet. Reaching frantically into the back of the closet, I feel fur, clench my hands in it and pull. He's yowling and growling, clawing, biting, drawing blood. I pull him into my arms and cradle his back paws and head against me.

Smoke is thick now. Flames reflect off the basement windows from outside as I run for the steps. Crashes and bangs thud from deep in the house. They must've thrown multiple fire bombs for it to catch this fast.

I take the steps two at a time to reach the door. A vampire flashes into view on the back porch. He blocks my way out, laughing in my face.

"You sonuvabitch," I snarl and snap a front kick into his chest. He steps back, off balance, and is smashed flat to the ground by a snarling white lion. Huge teeth maul and then bite through his neck. Hunched over Petey, I leap over the side of the steps and pelt toward the back gate. Bullets buzz by like angry hummingbirds. Tiny's standing behind the driver's door, providing cover fire.

I hit the back passenger door, shove Lawson over and drop Petey into the back compartment. Then I turn and whip out my gun. Standing on the car's door sill, I fire toward the house. Dunham bounds to the open passenger side door. A white flash. He's shifting.

Something grabs me from behind. I'm hauled back and down. An arm crosses my upper chest. I rake my foot down his shin. I hear myself scream as a hand clasps my head, preparing for a neck break. Steeling every muscle, I haul hard against the arm. Stomp his instep, try for an elbow to the gut. The pressure on my head and neck is excruciating.

A roar. A terrible ripping. Dunham's there in human form, holding one of the vampire's arms, throws it to the ground. Yanks the creature off me. Tears off its head with his bare hands.

He's the most magnificent thing I've ever seen.

We both dive into the car. Slam the doors.

My thigh's burning.

Tiny floors it, turning in a close circle to rocket down the alley. At the alley mouth, the SUV screeches left, away from the front of my house. I flip around to look out the back window. A vampire blurs into view at the alley mouth.

"How many more can there be?" I'm panting, clutching my leg. Ow, dammit. I must be hit but hadn't really noticed until now.

"I don't know, but I'll lose them. If they haven't suborned anymore FBI agents or cops, that is. Hopefully, I can out-drive them."

My insides vibrate like an electrified wire. Incipient hysteria. _Focus on process, DJ. Do your job._ I feel around for my bag. It's gotten shoved under the seat. No surprise there.

I find my phone by feel and call Lieutenant Kennedy. Report what happened, that we have Lawson, that he was enslaved and that we're on our way to Ramsey's house.

"Good work, team," Kennedy's tone is bracing but grim. He's also eminently practical as always. "Which way are you coming? Snelling?"

I ask Tiny. He nods.

"Yep."

"We'll deploy backup at cross-streets along that route. Go to lights and sirens until you're south of 94, then just lights."

I convey the message to Tiny.

Kennedy muses. "At least we know why Lawson was such a horse's ass."

He surprises a laugh out of me. Dunham glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

Kennedy regains my attention. "DJ, we need to talk, but you need some serious rest first. Why don't you meet me in my office around nine tomorrow morning?" I agree, and we disconnect.

I reach over and rearrange Lawson so that he's fully on the seat next to me instead of sprawled between and pull the seatbelt over him and snap it. Next, I turn on the dome light to peer into the back cargo space. Crouched low, Petey mews plaintively up at me, eyes like dinner plates. His brother's in an enclosed space and so is less traumatized. Out in the open, Petey feels vulnerable I click my tongue at him and reach over the back to retrieve him. My leg protests. The cat's body trembles with fear. I cradle him to me, his fur soft against my ultra-sensitized flesh, whispering and crooning. Reaching across, I pull the belt over and snap us in and stroke him long and firmly.

Tiny's taking it in through the rearview mirror. "You risked your life for that stupid cat." He shakes his head.

Dunham glances over at him. "Ease off, mate. He's her baby. You don't desert your babies." Not when you've just lost your fiancé. We all ignore the subtext. _But_. Dunham gets my relationship with my cats. Nice that somebody does.

I reach for my phone again and punch up Raven. She picks up.

"Hey, Rave. Where are you?"

"Just getting off work."

"Do me a favor and go to your sister's tonight instead of going home, okay?"

"Why?"

"Everything's gone to shit. You may be in danger if Ryan spilled his guts about my friends to his captors."

"Okay, but have you found him?"

I hesitate, swallow. "Yeah. But it was too late."

She moans. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry."

I swallow again. Tears are rising like a tsunami. "Thanks." It's a croak. I muscle the tsunami down; it's like me, pre-shapeshifter trying to push away a sumo wrestler.

"Where are you?"

"On my way to a safe house."

"Thank heavens."

"Ryan's abductors burned my house down."

"Oh. My. God! You just can't catch a break! Did you get your cats out?"

"Yeah, I've got them right here."

"Thanks be! Well, keep me apprised of what's going on, okay?"

"I'll do my best, sweetie."

"Take good care. Remember, tears heal."

"Okay. Take good care of you for me." We disconnect.

I call my brother Matt and fill him in, too. Ashley's recovering nicely. I ask him to call Mom with the news about Ryan. I shut off my phone.

Tiny wheels the SUV into the black-topped driveway of a colonial, three-story brick edifice with three dormers, black shutters and a white-arched door. It's awash in light. He pulls around back by a carriage house, a duplicate of the manor only smaller. The backyard's lit up like a red carpet premier.

We pile out. Tiny opens the back door to see to Lawson. Still holding my quivering tabby, I stroll around to the back of the SUV to get Cody's cat carrier.

Movement from the side of the carriage house flicks in my peripheral vision. I turn. A tiger trots toward me; it's Kemp.

"Shit." I slide around the back fender toward the front as Dunham dashes around me, nostrils flared, eyes bulging. A white flash. I step out from the SUV to watch.

The white lion and the Bengal meet with an audible crunch. Snarling and growls deafen as Kemp goes for Dunham's neck, but the thick mane foils him. They lunge and snap at each other's flanks and butts, then drop into crouches to leap into a full-frontal attack again. Spinning and lunging, fangs clashing, claws scrape the asphalt.

They stop, then circle, heads cocked. Deep, threatening growls raise the hair on my neck. Kemp lunges toward me. Dunham stops him with a massive paw across the face. The tiger sits back on his haunches, shakes it head. He launches himself at Dunham's throat. Dunham dodges. Kemp face-plants into the side of the SUV. Shakes his head again. The orange striped form staggers, feints left and leaps at the white lion's throat again. He only gets another mouthful of fur.

The tiger disengages again, snarling in frustration. Dunham snakes his head down and chomps Kemp's foreleg. A sickening snap. A roar of pain. The white lion clamps massive jaws in the tiger's neck, the great white body mashing the tiger's flailing paws into the asphalt. The white-maned head rears back, great neck muscles straining, ripping. The great head descends again, jaws close, biting again and again, chewing and tearing. The tiger wails in anguish. The lion moves, showing the tiger's glazing eyes, blood pouring from its nearly severed neck.

The white lion rises, blood dripping in sticky strings from his mouth. Bloody lips and teeth are still bared as he examines the tiger's lax face. Blue eyes catch my fascinated gaze, and he growls low, warning me off his kill. His bloody muzzle contrasts starkly against the white fur of his face. Primal avidity glistens in the blue eyes as they stare at me. Someone takes Petey from me. My arms dangle limply at my sides.

Ramsey's voice in my ear cautions, "Don't move, DJ." He backs away, his footsteps slow, measured.

The great lion stalks to me, lips gaping to expose the bloody teeth, blue eyes promising more violence. Its enormous head sniffs up and down the front of my body, lingering at my groin. He circles to the back, brushing against my arm. His fur is coarse. My nape hair rises as a great nose touches it. A damp, raspy tongue tastes it. I shiver. The great head and body rubs its way all around me, so hard I'm unbalanced. I stagger. He then walks toward the house's rear entry, tail tip twitching.

A white flash. Ramsey hands Dunham sweatpants. Numb from all the violence, I claim my suitcase and the cat carrier from the open hatch of the SUV and approach the house. Dunham's hungry, dilated eyes never leave me as he ties the sweatpants' drawstring. A significant bulge tents its front.

Ramsey's daughter, Cara, has Petey and reaches for Cody's cat carrier. "We'll put them in the laundry room for the night," her mother assures me after introducing herself as Jan. She's got the cat accommodations bag. We all troop into the house. I'm commandeered for a quick examination of my leg. Just a crease, but it burns like hell. The bullet was silver, after all. Jan smears it with a cooling salve.

Ramsey hands me a glass. "Silver cleanse," he murmurs. "It'll offset the effects of the silver in your bloodstream and move it out of your system faster." I chug it.

Jan ushers me upstairs to a guest suite. I make all the polite noises, attempt a smile or two, but my mind's completely offline. White noise fills my ears so that I barely hear her good night wishes as she closes the door behind her. In a daze, I open my suitcase, assemble requirements and head for the shower. I wash my hair and scrub off the day: fear stink, stress sweat, spent adrenaline, blood, ashy remnants, and the nearly black blood of vampires. The hot water is a blessing, easing deep body aches I'd been only distantly aware of. I stand swaying, just letting the water cascade over me. If only it could wash away my heartache. Warmed, thick towels sop the water from my skin. A clean soft nightshirt enfolds me like a beloved hug. With long strokes I comb out my hair. My travel toothpaste and floss, minty unlike my usual, somehow make me tipsy. I'm luxuriating in my clean, flossed teeth when I hear a sound outside the bathroom door. I cock my head. Listen. Sniff. Open the door.

Tristan Dunham stands in the middle of the room, eyes still dilated, and sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Thankfully, the blood's been washed away. An enchanting fragrance fills the space—the spice of an aroused male. Stunned, I pull it into my lungs, immediately intoxicated. In an instant, his sweatpants are gone. He's mouth-wateringly nude, and splendidly, enormously erect. His eyes fasten on mine, mesmerizing, glowing an electric blue. I undulate toward him in a haze of primal sexuality—instinct banishing all other considerations. When I'm within reach, he fingers the hem of my sleep shirt, and it's over my head and on the floor in a second.

I hear myself ask dreamily, "What's this about?"

Tristan purrs, "First Full Moon. And you're mine." His beautifully curved mouth descends on mine.

His lips are scorching, sucking, gently biting. A tongue tip traces between my lips, inserting slightly to stroke the inner surfaces. I haul in a startled breath, and he slants his head, the kiss aggressive now, thrusting his tongue over and over inside my shocked mouth. I moan, thrills of sensation raising the fine hairs on my body. My nipples contract, and his fingertips brush them lightly, eliciting a gasp. Then, his hands slide around my hips, grip my buttocks, and he rocks against my pelvis, grinding gently. Liquid heat flashes through me, collecting moistly, low, sweet and urgent.

His nostrils flare at my body's unmistakable response. He picks me up, eyes devouring my rapt face. Then, we're on the bed. He's over me in the next blink, his long fine hair curling about his face as his eyes survey my body with male satisfaction. Arms slide under me then, the coarse hair and skin caressing me, pulling me into his chest. His mouth presses open kisses into mine. He tastes of wildness and mint, warming to the nutty, slick, unforgettable flavor of passion. My back arches with delight at the feel of him, breasts pressing fervently into his chest.

My hands run down the sleek muscles of his long back, so firm and silken, smoothing up and down. The downy hair on his buttocks rises with delight. I cup them, then stroke lightly with my fingertips, tracing their firmness with subtly kneading fingers, pulling him against me with a slow, sensual pulse. That enticing cock pushing teasingly against my mound, he breaks the kiss to rain bites down my neck and upper chest.

Each touch of his teeth wrings a helpless groan from me, making me shove impatient breasts at him. His hot mouth finds a nipple and suckles softly, sweetly, then teases it with the tip of his tongue. Then he closes his mouth over it, sucking slowly, intensifying to strong, hard pulls. I'm panting now, entranced little sighs escaping me—totally abandoned to his sensual assault. His hand circles my other breast, plucks teasingly, then more strongly. A climax catches me unexpectedly. I arch mindlessly against him, seeking cries escaping me. I need fullness, feel so empty.

Suddenly, he flips me over, positioning me on my hands and knees. He's growling now, the sensual threat sending eager shivers through me. His chest brushes my back, engorged cock brushing between my thighs. My back dips instinctively, raising my pulsing wetness to tempt him. His leans back, an arm brushing my buttock as his hand finds my slippery heated entrance and strokes inside, one long finger, two, then three, preparing his way and eliciting helpless cries from me. Then, warm breath bathes my quivering flesh. He draws in my scent; a questing tongue laves and sips at me. I hear his long, satisfied exhalation. It sets my legs quivering. A slight shift of weight, and the blunt tip of a coy cock slips bewitchingly in and then out, in and out. Then again. Pauses. And again. I cry out. The anticipation is agonizing. That sly tip slides in slightly, just a little further now. His muscled arms come around me, one arm sliding across my chest, its hand teasing a nipple, the other supporting him. I feel his breath warm on my nape, then his open mouth.

He clamps on with mouth and hand and thrusts hard and deep, filling me utterly. Ecstasy explodes around and through me. I'm screaming with ecstasy, melting, twisting, captured by the feel of him all around and in me. Again and again and again that complete filling, over and over. My core pulses richly, the feel of him in it succulent, utterly delicious. An aching groan at my ear compels me to lunge back against him, meeting him with all I have. His teeth against my flesh hold me an enraptured prisoner.

Too soon, he releases me, moving upright, his hips thrusting hard and long now, his warm hands holding my hips. The new angle wrings a series of soft, rhythmic shrieks from me, the gathering, beguiling pressure ratcheting higher and higher to an exploding peak, nearly lifting me off the bed. The peaks keep coming as he drives forward, over and over.

I hear him behind me now, calling to me hoarsely, praising and urging me on. Gradually, his rhythm breaks up. One last time, he surges inside, swelling within me, the hot pulsing bringing me with him. We're suspended together in a timeless moment of mutual rapture. Then, magnificently, gloriously, he roars his completion.

We collapse together, panting, him on top of me. After a breathless time, he angles himself slightly off me, his arms coming around underneath, tilting me so he can pull my nipples gently. He licks the back of my neck long and slow, then sucks it slightly to prolong my pleasure. I'm jerking with aftershocks. A contented growl eases from his lips as he sets his teeth in the muscle beside my neck. A tender kiss and a lick soothes the spot. Then, he simply holds me like I'm precious.

All I hear is our twinned breathing. His heart thuds against my back, subtly rocking us. Our scent is wonderful, at once smoky and musky. I breathe it in unhurriedly, eyes closed. His lips touch the back of my neck.

Sleep settles over me like a velvet blanket.

## Chapter 12

My eyes peek open. Dawn light envelops the room. House finches twitter outside the window with a chickadee's "phoeee-be" punctuating their chorus. I remember that it's Saturday.

I'm alone in the bed. I can still smell Tristan, though. He hasn't been gone long. The bed's still warm where he lay.

I stretch luxuriantly. All the right places ache. Except my leg, ouch.

Then, it hits me. Ryan's lost. Gone. Forever. And I had incredible, mind-bending sex with another man on the night he died. With Ryan's ring still on my hand.

Self-loathing gathers tight in my chest, threating suffocation. What kind of woman am I? How could I have done that? I gaze down at the engagement ring. It sparkles mockingly in the sunlight. Slowly, deliberately, I draw it off my finger. Grief and guilt chew me as I set it on a bedside table.

I limp into the bathroom, tear-blind. After necessities, the shower again. Tears rain down with the spray. Sobbing aloud, I choke on the tears, giving voice to my sorrow and shame behind the shower's protective glass walls.

The bathroom door clicks shut. I poke my head out the shower door. "Hello?" No reply. The tears continue unchecked as I get after the business of washing myself and toweling off. Heat from the shower helps loosen the stiff leg.

After slipping on my zipper robe, using the hair dryer and tooth-brushing, I examine my face in the mirror. Swollen eyes. Check. Hollow cheeks. Check. Gray pallor and gi-normous under-eye bags. I reach for the concealer. The full mask is called for today. I need the protection. Bloodshot eyes. Visine. Lots of blinking. Water-proof mascara. No doubt I'll be needing _that_ today. Check my neck and upper chest. No love bites, thank God for shifter healing. Those would be _really_ hard to explain the day after Ryan's death. I shudder, my breath catching in a sob.

Back in the empty bedroom, I consider my suit-cased choices. Today, I just need to be me. Nice jeans and a subtly patterned, scoop-necked, scarlet breast- and waist-hugging blouse, Ryan's favorite outfit. He said it made my eyes radiant. I catch a low-down, sneaky tear before it damages my mask.

_Maintain, girl. Maintain. You just have to get through the morning._ I wrench my mind to fashion. I fasten my grandma's gold cross over another bigger necklace of large gold rings and add a wide gold bangle bracelet, big gold hoop earrings, and catch-me-screw-me platform red stilettos. Never let it be said that I can't accessorize, even on my worst day—and this one's the day after. Next on the list: repack the suitcase, throw the bedspread over the sex-redolent sheets and slip Ryan's ring into my bag. I eject my suitcase's handle and roll it briskly out the door, down the hallway. There's barely a limp now. That cleanse Ramsey gave me last night is a wonder. A focus on minutiae will save my sanity today.

Tristan's scent draws me to a door. I pause there, sniffing. A waiting tension penetrates the door from the other side. His scent calls to me. Resolute, I march to the landing and down carpeted stairs; I have mourning and penance to do.

My suitcase's wheels roll smoothly over the polished oak floors as I follow my nose toward breakfast. It leads me to an octagonal room framed by tall windows and lace curtains blowing in a cool dawn breeze. A polished oblong cherry table covered in a matching white lace tablecloth is centered within it.

Jan flips a page on her Tablet, glances up, a half cup of coffee and breakfast detritus in front of her. She's immaculately dressed in a periwinkle, broad-lapelled sleeveless blouse and pearls with matching pearl eardrops. Her arms are toned. A smooth blond bob accents her narrow china blue eyes and oval face. Her pouty lips are painted a soft rose under a tiny nose. Her makeup is subtle and classy, perfect.

Jan's eyes assess me compassionately, seeing everything, I'm sure. We weren't exactly discreet last night, down-right loud in fact. Humiliation curls my toes inside my pumps.

She greets me, telling me to help myself to the chafing dishes on the buffet. I study the floor, mumble something and turn to the spread. Speaking of classy: cloth napkins, sterling silver in an ornate pattern, and fine china. Suddenly ravenous, I heap my plate with scrambled eggs, sausage links, hash browns and an English muffin slathered with butter. When did I eat last? I don't remember. English breakfast tea with cream and sugar tops off my repast.

I set my gleanings on the table and seat myself, studiously avoiding Jan's gaze as she folds her Tablet into its case. She lays a staying hand on my arm and catches my eye.

"The First Full Moon for a newly turned female shapeshifter is as inescapable as the tide and taxes, DJ. We all understand that." Her voice is low, throaty. "You're totally at the mercy of the deepest primal instinct, survival. You'd be dead today if you hadn't been with Tristan last night. He saved your life."

Now, there's plain speaking. It helps me choke back my tears.

I suspect, some really kind people have talked over how to get this message to me before I kill myself (figuratively, not literally) out of sheer guilt and shame. She took on this less than comfortable duty, which is darned decent of her—and very sweet.

Jan continues, making eye contact again. "And he fought for you, killed Kemp for the privilege of being your first moon mate. There's no way either of you could have stayed away from each other after that."

The hard knot in my chest loosens. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Thank you." It's heartfelt.

She nods, then on to business. "We'll be happy to keep your cats in the laundry room until you decide where you're going next. I understand you have a meeting with Lieutenant Kennedy this morning. I'll have a cab here for you in about fifteen minutes. John also wants to meet with you. He told me he'd like to see you at eleven. He insists that it's essential you make time for him today."

I nod. She slips me his business card. He's in the Wells Fargo Tower in downtown Saint Paul, not far from the State Capitol—big bucks space. No surprise there.

I thank her again. Rising, she smiles, clasps my hand warmly for a second and then leaves me to eat my breakfast in peace. What a gracious lady. Ramsey has it good.

Thoughts of retribution keep me company as I eat. While in the shower, my mind finally made the connection between that scent I sensed on my patrol of the neighborhood two nights ago (before being distracted by Tristan as lion and naked man in my dining room) and the one I caught last night as we arrived at my house. Shame and guilt engulf me again. I was distracted, and it was night...if only....It's no use. It's over. The need for vengeance grips me hard.

I'm entertaining new thoughts, ones I've never allowed in my head before, thoughts that break the law. Thoughts totally against my moral code, but today's a new day. My whole future's been ripped away from me. I'm worlds away from person I was a week ago. And physically, I feel better, stronger, more powerful than I did yesterday. Something else happened last night besides life-giving sex. I now have my full powers as a blessed shapeshifter. The breeze from the window attracts my attention. No dampness. Clouds had rolled through last night, but the rain went south of us, so the radio playing in the other room says. My nose can work with that.

I leave my suitcase in the front foyer to find the laundry room. While I pet and coo over stressed kitties, I feel their little minds pushing against mine. I project my cloud of calm for them, assuring them of their beauty and courage and that I'll be back for them soon. I hear a horn honk out front. Grabbing my suitcase, I'm out the front door. For the very last time, I give the cabbie my home address and slide the barrier between the seats closed. I fish my cell from my bag and dial Raven. She picks up immediately.

"Where are you, Deej?"

"I'm in a cab on the way to my house. Where are you?"

"I'm home. Everything's fine here. I came home right after sunup but drove by your house on the way. It's a gutted shell."

"I'm not surprised. How about the garage?"

"It's still there."

"Good." I swallow. "Rave, I'm going to need an alibi for my whereabouts this morning."

Her response is immediate. "You have it."

"Thanks." Another heartfelt one.

"Get those murdering bastards, DJ." Her voice is harsh with hate and tears. She and Ryan had been good friends.

"I will." My voice sounds exactly the same. We disconnect.

When the cab turns onto my block, I slide the glass barrier open to instruct the cabbie to drive up the alley. He stops behind my house; I shove a few bills through the open barrier and slide out. I saunter to the garage keypad, poke in the code. The door opens. I wheel my suitcase in and hit the button to close the garage door behind me. It's just now seven o'clock.

Opening my car's trunk, I insert the suitcase and unzip it and change into my workout outfit. Finding a ball cap in the trunk, I braid and stuff my hair up under it.

First things first: dustpan and whisk broom, a spare plastic Target bag. I re-open the garage door and go up the walk to circle the ruins of my little haven. Gone. Everything. My heart clenches as I ascend the sooty front steps and use my keys to unlock the door. Will it open? Yes, but with great reluctance.

There's very little left of the wooden entry. I crouch down and sweep a heap of ashes into the dust pan and transfer them into the Target bag. Ryan's family deserves something to bury. His poor parents and sister. I only met them once, but they were made of the same cloth as he. I sternly banish tears on my way back to the garage.

There, I retrieve the engagement ring from my bag and drop it into the plastic Target bag along with a couple of tears. I tie it off and put it in the trunk. Finally, I close the garage door again to conceal my upcoming illegal actions.

It's time to assemble my weapons of vengeance: a compartmented cardboard box full of empty wine bottles, a funnel, accelerant from the lawnmower's gas can poured into the bottles, a few old rags stuffed ruthlessly down the bottle's throats. Next, insert box into the trunk, find an old cigarette lighter next to the grill and charcoal. Last but not least, a nice, sharp box cutter. Now, I'm ready.

In the driver's seat, I punch the opener's button, back out carefully and steer sedately west up the alley. I open all the windows and the sunroof. Smoke and gasoline attack my nose. Now's not the time to have my most important weapon overwhelmed by those strong scents. Stopping at the mouth of the alley, I grab the hand sanitizer from the cup holder and apply it. The gasoline smell recedes. I turn right onto the street and left at the next corner. The smoke smell slowly fades the further I drive from my property. At the next corner, I park and exit the car. I inhale deeply while turning in a slow circle. There, just the faintest hint to the northwest. It's clearer now. The first full moon seems to have ratcheted up my smeller another couple of degrees as well as my physical power. There it is: a trace of honeysuckle and rotted blood. A convulsive swallow forces its way down my throat.

I make like a jogger, go north, then west at the next corner, trot by St. Columba Catholic School and church, the rectory. At the next house, there's the scent of vampires and the deep lye-and-ash scent of a very old one. It's show time.

I run back to my car and pull calmly away from the curb, drive to the block and park about fifty feet down from the alley entrance. I slip a stake into my back waistband, retrieve my box of vengeance and stroll nonchalantly down the alley.

The house in question is a tan stucco bungalow, its wooden trim painted in brown. A head-high wooden fence, painted the same brown, surrounds the backyard. I let myself in the unlocked back gate. Cocky, to leave it open like that. They must've thought the smoke would permeate the neighborhood and that they'd scared me away. I still get a whiff of smoke from time to time, but it'd take a lot more to fool this nose now. But, some shapeshifters would have missed the smell of vampire because of it. There are at least three or four other vamps here besides the master. Those bastards multiply like freakin' rabbits. But these have to be just the remnants; we cleared out a whole slew of them.

Inside the gate, sunlight makes me squint. Tall lilacs and a broad-crowned sugar maple provide heavy shade over the rest of the back yard, making it a shapeshifter-sucking vampire's paradise. It's bordered on two sides by wide hosta beds. The back porch is half the width of the house with a long crawl space beneath. Lattice-work painted the same brown keeps critters from nesting under there.

I see curtains through the open windows fluttering in the breeze. Wow, they're really confident—or used to having others take care of such details (like human slaves). Let's hope the open windows and unlocked gate mean there are no humans inside. I set down my box, slip the box cutter out of my pocket and make slits in each of the five screens accessible from the back yard, sniffing carefully. Nope, no human scent, just vampire stink.

Then I collect my box, reach into my pocket for the lighter and make a calm circuit from west to east around the house. Lighting the now gas-soaked rag, I toss the first wine bottle through the cut screen. _This is for Ryan,_ I chant mentally with each throw _. Ryan, this is for you._ Satisfaction surges with each tinkle of breaking gas and _whoosh_ of igniting flame. No other sounds come from inside. There are indeed no new humans enslaved yet. The vampires haven't been here but two days, and they've been busy chasing me.

Last, I open the back porch's screened door, set down my box right by the back door, and soak it and the porch's wooden floor with gas from a last bottle. Light it. Fire leaps hungrily.

As I back down the steps, movement at the lattice below the porch catches my eye. A gray skeletal hand pushes the lattice wide. Slowly, a long naked figure crawls out. The smoke and flame on the porch must have triggered some survival instinct. I approach, silent, nostrils flared wide and catch a rotted blood and deeply lye-ash scent.

Just the guy I want to see. Need for vengeance and hatred explode in me, hotter than the flames on the porch. Adrenaline pumps into my veins.

I snatch his long black hair and haul him toward the patch of sunlight just inside the gate. A gray hand snakes out and snatches me off my feet. We wrestle, he aiming for my neck, I just trying to just get away. Daylight or not, he's wicked strong, and it's been a couple of days since he's sucked shapeshifter blood.

_But_. Last night was my First Full Moon, and I'm stronger and faster than ever, more powerful than he is now that it's daylight. I evade his grasping hands. Jump my feet. Grab one of his ankles, pulling him toward the light.

"Who are you?" he cries through that shark-toothed maw. "What do you want?" He sinks his fingers into the ground, trying to anchor himself. I'm not having any of it. A hearty tug rips him free. "I can make you richer than you've ever dreamed. I can give you endless pleasure."

Yanking him step by inexorable step toward sunlight, I growl, " _So_ not interested. Remember Trattoria da Vinci's in March? He proposed to me that night. You know, the FBI agent you killed this week? He was a good man and my fiancé. Let me introduce myself: Ryan's avenging spirit."

His voice shifts to a hiccupping coo as I tug him toward the end of the sidewalk's sunlit cement. "Oh, you're the new little shapeshifter with fire in her veins. Ryan told us so much about you. How much he loooooved you. He was so warm, sweet and fragrant—just like honeysuckle. So deliciously sexy, so passionate in bed."

Rage swamps me, and I kick him viciously in the head. Flipping him face down on the sidewalk, I drag him onward, leaving plenty of vampire skin behind.

His voice is calm now, nearly crooning, belying his renewed clawing efforts to free himself. "He told us all about your darling little niece at St. Catherine's, your friends, your family." He flails and thrashes, lunging at the hand that's grasping his ankle. But, my plunging, arrhythmic movements keep him off-balance and me just out of reach.

"I'll just bet. While you stole his entire future from him—and me. You slimy mess of stinking carrion." Yank by powerful yank, I finally pull him into the sun and hold him there. At the first touch of light, he goes limp. I let go.

He's up and streaking toward the house. Played me. _Bastard_.

I'm after him in a flash, the stake out and ready now. No more messing around. This is daytime, my time. And I'm going to make him pay for Ryan's death with everything he has.

The vampire halts when he notices smoke rolling out of the house's windows. He rounds on me, accusing in a cultured accent, "You don't know what you've done. You've destroyed a dynasty that's spanned generations—centuries."

"Like I give a shit," I snarl. He lunges, his ugly maw wide, clawed hands aiming for my throat.

A lightning-fast up-block keeps those claws off me. Putting all my hatred into it, I ram the stake home under his ribs.

"Go straight to hell," I tell his fading green orbs as he crumbles to ash in front of me.

Then, I'm running, limping for the back gate and down the alley. I glance down; the fighting re-opened the crease on my leg. It's just seven-thirty on a Saturday morning, but someone's bound to notice the smoke and flames soon. Glancing around, I reach the alley mouth; no one's about, not even an early dog-walker. Have I lucked out or what? I trot-limp to my car as if out for a run, fish the keys from my pocket and drive off.

My hand trembles as it comes up to cover my mouth. I did it. Ryan's killer is gone forever. He's avenged.

_But_. It's not enough. It'll never be enough because Ryan's irreplaceable. He's never coming back. I'll never touch him, hold him, tease him or make love with him... _ever_ ... _again_. I snag a tissue from the box in the console to catch every tear before they can ruin my makeup.

Then, memories begin tumbling through. That time in the park when we played 'catch,' and he kept throwing the ball past me just to make me chase it. The tackling and tickling when I realized what he was up to. Our first date and the magic of our first kiss. When it went on so long we barely refrained from ripping off each other's clothes on my doorstep. Meeting his family and seeing how much they loved and respected each other, all the while teasing each other unmercifully. My kind of family. The time I dragged him to Valley Fair and made him go on rides until he threatened to puke on me. The first time we made love. I surface to find myself sobbing.

This will never do. I have two high-powered meetings to get through before I can let it all go. The tissue's a sodden ball. I go for another one and check my look in the mirror. A bit sweaty but not bad for a life-or-death struggle and an act of arson. Red-eyed. Nobody will be surprised by that.

I reach my garage again, pull in. Time for cleanup: grab an alcohol wipe from the car's first aid kit to tend the bullet crease on my leg, slap an adhesive bandage on it, sponge myself off with baby wipes to cleanse the sweat and mask the smell of smoke, ditch the baseball cap. It's a darned miracle it stayed on my head through all that. Change clothes, unbraid my hair, brush it out and let it hang down my back. Spray a little perfume into the air and walk through it head first. Spray some onto the ends of my hair for good measure. Smells always cling to hair the worst. Thankfully, the perfume's pretty light, or people would be passing out in my wake. I don my jeans outfit again.

The first fire trucks roar by, honking, sirens wailing. I check the time. Seven forty-five. I pull out my cell. Call Raven.

"It's all over. I got him."

"Deej. Where are you?"

"In my garage."

"Come over. I'll make breakfast and give your alibi some legs."

So I go. She feeds me my second breakfast of the morning. Funny, but I'm starved again. I tell her _everything_. Every detail. Even about Tristan. Shapeshifters and vampires, too, but I swear her to secrecy about them. Her blue eyes are bulging by the time I finish.

Leaning back in her chair, she folds her arms over her United Way tee shirt. "Holy. Shit."

"Yeah."

"So, why do you think my dousing kept saying Ryan was in Burnsville?"

"Tristan thought it might have been the last place he was mostly human." My throat threatens to close down.

We regard each other out of red-rimmed eyes.

"No wonder you've shellacked on the makeup today. Otherwise, you'd look like owl shit."

I laugh. "You always know how to build up my ego."

"So what happens next?"

"I'll find out after I meet with my boss and the pack leader this morning."

"Keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Will do." I check my watch. It's ten 'til nine. I get up and move to her back door.

Following, she hugs me, squeezing tight. "When the meetings are over, promise me you'll let out all this pain you're holding in, okay?"

"I will."

"You're going home after the meetings this morning?"

"Yeah."

"Best place for you." She sends me off with a kiss on the cheek.

My sore, heavy heart feels lighter.

## Chapter 13

The drive to the station goes by in a haze. Through all this, I've prayed, pleaded with God for help—to save Ryan, to show me how to save him. And Ryan suffered at the hands of monsters—and died anyway. _At your hand_ , a vicious, inner voice sneers _. No, not_ mine, a calm, rationale side avers _,_ I _didn't kill him._ _I simply put his body to rest._ How could a compassionate God allow that to happen? Why? Through all the horror and pain of the past few days, God, where _were_ you?

Some might scoff at faith as a crutch or a sop for the weak. There are atheists and agnostics out there, I know, as well as fear-based fundamentalists—for sure. Me? I've always felt there was something bigger, wiser, vastly powerful and all-seeing out there—benevolent and loving. I still do.

But today, my faith lies gasping inside me—beaten, bloody, ripped and tattered—like my spirit. Because there _was_ no divine intervention. No sign of divine caring. Not even the smallest glimmer of attention. At all. At any time—that I can see now, in retrospect.

That little nasty voice inside whispers, _Did you really, honestly expect it?_

_I had_ hoped _,_ the calmer side rejoins.

Today, my mind rails, _Why couldn't You save him, God? My poor, sweet Ryan._

Once again tears threaten eruption, molten and destructive. _No, not yet. You can't let go yet._

After this week, there's no doubt in my mind, however, that evil exists. I've seen it. Tasted its blood. Turned it to ash through stake, bullet and fire—and with extreme prejudice.

Where does this leave my faith, my hope for a future, a safe world? In ashes with Ryan?

I park in the station house lot, retrieve the pitiful sack of ashes and make it up to our floor with no fanfare. Thankfully. Not many people around. I'm okay with that. The few immediately approach me and offer their condolences. It's hard to be grateful at a time like this, but they're honestly feeling for me. All I can do is thank them.

As usual, Kennedy's on the phone. He motions me in and winds up his call.

"Thanks for coming in." I nod. He sits back and examines my face. "You've been through hell."

"Yes, sir."

Leaning forward, he meets my eyes intently. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss." All I can do is nod. I dare not say a word; the tears are too close.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "There are a lot of people who are very grateful for what you've done. You and your cadre of shapeshifters saved many lives. You exposed and eradicated a menace we could never have managed on our own."

"I don't know about that, sir."

His dark eyes are sharp on my face. "Now, don't contradict me, detective. I saw everything that went into your actions. And I know what it cost you."

I don't know what to say.

"Come with me." He rises and motions me ahead of him out the door and across the squad room. He hits the elevator button for the top floor. As we enter it, suddenly, I'm so weary I can barely stand. Kennedy reaches over to grasp my upper arm. He smiles at me gently.

We exit the elevator. He guides me toward the conference room where my near-trial took place just three days ago. It seems years have passed since then.

As I walk through the door, a roomful of people in suits rise. I'm astonished. Tiny's there, Patrick, my captain, the police chief. I recognize some FBI faces from the other day, the mayors of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, the governor of Minnesota, Tristan. His eyes devour my face. His look is too intense for me right now. I study the wall beyond him.

Kennedy guides me to a chair at the front of the room. Everyone sits. Someone gets up to turn on the TV and makes the adjustments necessary for video-conferencing. While that's going on, Tiny approaches me. He lifts his chin at the pathetic little Target bag on my lap.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Ryan's ashes."

"If you want, I'll see that they get to the right place. I have to notify his family." I nod and hand the bag over. _Thank you, God, for sparing me that at least._

The TV blooms to life. It's the President of the United States and the head of the FBI. I'm stunned.

"Detective Jesseray." That beautiful voice sounds incredible as it shapes my name. Tears well up.

"I've heard astounding things about you and your team's efforts in Minneapolis and Saint Paul over the past few days. About the courage, leadership and fortitude you've displayed. How you made the authorities in your cities and this nation sit up, take notice and take long-overdue action against a threat we'd downplayed or ignored because we just didn't want to believe it existed. How your resourcefulness and grit prevented injustice, saved lives, returned lost ones to their families and solved many crimes. Because of you and your team, we are now much better able to deal with this threat."

He pauses. "Regretfully, I also know what you sacrificed. Please accept my heartfelt condolences."

Another pause. "On behalf of this grateful nation, I humbly thank you, Mr. Patrick Donovan, SSA Smith and Mr. Tristan Dunham." The TV goes black.

Everyone rises and cheers. Tiny, Patrick and Tristan's hands are wrung over and over. Kennedy urges me to my feet, standing protectively over my left shoulder. Those important men treat me with exquisite gentleness. I can only stare, nod and murmur a few words as they express their thanks and condolences.

As the crowd thins, the police chief beckons Kennedy over to a group containing the mayors and the governor.

Tiny approaches me again, extends his hand and shakes mine. "I know that Ryan would have been very proud of you, DJ." I nod and sniff. A single tear trickles down my cheek. I'm simply overcome by all of this. He snags tissue from a box on the table and hands it to me. "We'll be seeing each other again, I'm sure. But when that time comes, would you please call me Trevor?" Humor glints in his eyes.

I chuckle, nod and wipe my eyes. He turns away to pick up the little bag.

Agent in Charge McLaughlin appears at my elbow. "Detective, I hope you'll accept my sincere condolences. Ryan Cathcart was a fine agent and a better man. We'll miss him deeply at the Bureau."

I nod my thanks and manage to catch another escaping tear.

His dark chocolate eyes steady me with their clear, compassionate gaze. "I also want to personally thank you for your extremely fine work these past few days."

He holds up his hand to stop me as I open my mouth to protest. "Yes, I'm fully aware of why you did it. But, that doesn't take away from what you did and what you endured."

I drop my eyes, nodding.

"I find myself very impressed by you, Detective Jesseray. Someone like you could make a very fine contribution to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Would you stop in to see me when you're back in town?"

My eyes widen with surprise. I sure as hell didn't expect a job offer today, of all days. All I can do is nod and thank him. He nods back and departs.

Tristan catches my eye and strides over. "Would you come with me somewhere we can be private?"

I nod once. My mind scrambles. I have no idea what to say to him.

He takes my elbow, guides me out of the room. Off the elevator lobby is another smaller conference room. We enter, and he closes the door behind us.

Then, he simply turns and holds out his arms. What an invitation. I throw my arms around him. I have to work hard not to sob and get makeup or snot all over his beautiful suit. I'm _such_ a classy girl.

"Thank you." I murmur against his chest. "Thank you for everything. For everything you taught us, for working so hard to help us find Ryan, for risking your life over and over again. You were wonderful." I lean back and meet his eyes. "And thank you for saving my life."

"Och." His granny's Scottish accent is in full evidence, and the corners of his eyes crinkle around wickedly gleaming blue irises. "'Twas no great hardship, lassie, believe me."

I blush and look down.

A finger softly urges my chin back up, our eyes meeting again. "You're mourning a fine man, one you planned to build a life with." His eyes are beseeching, kind and earnest. "But when you're ready to love again, I hope you'll look my way first."

Then, he lowers his lips to mine, kissing me with utter sweetness, tenderness and a touch of regret. Then he releases me and walks out the door. All I can do is stand there, swaying a little. The elevator dings, and he's gone.

Kennedy sticks his head in and looks around in puzzlement as if to see what I'm doing standing in there by myself. "Detective, would you come back down to the squad room with me?"

"Yes, sir."

We get on the elevator. "You're due some funeral leave. I'd also suggest taking some time off to re-assess things."

I look up at him, confused. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Well, you've experienced huge changes in your life, and there're more to come—if I'm reading the signs right."

I'm still confused. "What?"

"Just...." Kennedy runs a hand over his jaw. "Keep me in the loop on any new developments, okay?"

"Sure." I slant a frowning gaze at him. He avoids my eyes. The elevator stops on the squad's floor.

"Oh, and I'll need a complete report of your activities over the past three days before you're officially on leave. Would you please have it in my inbox today before you depart?"

My mouth drops open. _Of all the...!_ _At a time like this?_ I stare at him.

He chuckles and winks at me. "It'll take your mind off things."

_Jackass_. I exit the elevator. He stays on and punches another button, smiling as the door closes. _Butthead_.

I check the time on my cell phone. 9:30. Can I get this report done in an hour and a half? I sit down at my desk and dig in.

As my mind reviews the things that happened over the past few days, I begin to notice little things. Oddly convenient things. Like whenever I got klutzy, a vampire became ash: in the North Oaks garage, outside the Resident Agency that night—with that damned bush, in the basement of that house on Summit and several times during our daylong raid of vampire nests. Hmmm. What the heck was that about?

Next, I count the number of people we saved and returned to their families, the number of children we returned to their parents, the properties of Dunham's blood that supplied blessed forgetfulness to vampires' victims. His blood also rendered them unable to harm us, and themselves or the medical personnel who worked so hard to get them back to physical health. Like a phoenix, hope begins to rise from the ashes of my heart.

But then I tabulate the number we couldn't help anymore—all those bodies, the shapeshifters who died during our attempts. Hope dims _. But, just think, if those vampires had continued unmolested, how many more bodies there would have been._ Hundreds. Thousands. And how much more suffering.

My mind starts to weigh it all on the scales of justice. I put it all in the report.

Except for this: was the sacrifice of one brave and righteous man—the man I loved—the price I had to pay for this kind of justice? The price required? Was it worth it? Would he have freely sacrificed himself for it?

The truth resounds like a bell in my spirit: _Yes. In a heartbeat._

_But. It was one_ hell _of a hefty price—for us both._

A few sneaky, low-down tears escape me then. But, a great weight lifts from my heart. I send up a little sheepish prayer of gratitude for the insight. I don't like the price—at all—but I get it. Finally.

I come up for air at ten thirty-five when I click _Save,_ _Spellcheck_ , and _Print_. Grab it off the printer. Proofread. Make minor tweaks and save again. Attach it to an extremely terse email; Kennedy will read my pique in its brevity—as I intend. Click _Send_.

I head for the door and run smack into Jordy as he's coming around the corner.

"Jess! I was hoping to find you here."

"I'm on my way out, Jordy. I've got a meeting in downtown Saint Paul in about fifteen minutes."

"Dang. My timing's always lousy with you, isn't it?" His light blue eyes tell me he's talking about more than just today's encounter. "I'll walk you out."

He jabs the elevator button. "Life's been hell on you lately...."

"Yeah." The elevator arrives. We get on.

"Jess, I'm really sorry about Ryan. Really sorry." He offers me a hug. I can use all those I can get today.

He releases me as the elevator doors open, asks me about my plans after the meeting, about my house and the cats. Outside, he opens my car door for me and leans in after I'm settled and belted in.

"Stay in touch, will you, partner?" His eyes are caring and a little bittersweet.

"Of course, Jordy." He kisses my cheek. I try to smile.

On the drive over to the Wells Fargo building, I reflect on the men in my life. Good men. Strong men. Men I'm fortunate to know.

I find parking, get into the building, locate the elevators and the right floor to finally exit into a dim lobby. A sign points me to Ramsey and Associates. I open a mahogany door to another dim lobby and step in.

From down a short hallway, Ramsey's voice floats, saying, "Here she is now." He comes out a mahogany-paneled doorway and ushers me into the room. More mahogany and chrome. Modern cubist paintings. A huge man in a gray suit rises from a chair in front of Ramsey's massive desk.

Ramsey rumbles, "Detective Jesseray, I'd like to introduce you to Joseph Amundsen." Automatically, I hold out my hand, and an enormous paw engulfs it.

I gape up at him. He's got to be six eight or six nine, barrel-chested, legs like sequoias, his neck's as wide as my thigh. His hair's platinum blond, buzzed short over large black eyes, not just dark brown but black. With a nose like a dagger, his craggy features aren't handsome but arresting.

Amundsen's voice is even deeper than Ramsey's. "Detective Jesseray. Mr. Ramsey has told me a great deal about you."

I look to Ramsey in complete befuddlement. "Mr. Amundsen is the head of all the North American packs," he supplies.

I swallow that along with my surprise. Any guesses on what he turns into? Polar bear would be mine. Or a yeti.

Ramsey motions us into chairs, goes to a small fridge and offers me a bottle of water. Amundsen shakes his head at Ramsey's offer. I'm dry as a sand dune in high summer so the water's gone in half a second. Ramsey proffers another; I accept it.

Amundsen leans toward me, hands loosely clasped between his knees. "Detective, I understand your life is very complicated right now, so I'll get straight to the point. The North American pack has an elite corps of..." He looks at Ramsey, scratches his head. "How would you describe them?"

"Troubleshooters. Extraction specialists. Shapeshifter special forces." Ramsey shrugs.

Amundsen continues, "Your unique gifts and professional skills make you a perfect candidate for this group. The fact is, I'm offering you a job. We need you badly. The vampire threat is very challenging for the pack as a whole, and we need you to do for us what you've done for Minneapolis and St. Paul, but all over the continent."

I sit back in my chair, stunned.

Ramsey chimes in, "We don't know how much vampires outside of the Twin Cities area know about you and your abilities, so we're prepared to offer you asylum and secret accommodations, now that your own home has been destroyed. We'll also pay for plastic surgery to help change your appearance. You'll be in danger as long as you stay in the Twin Cities. And perhaps your family and friends will, too. As long as the cities' master vampire--"

I interrupt, "Excuse me. This master vampire. What's he look like?"

Ramsey frowns. "Tall, thin, white, cultured accent, long black hair. His name is Vance Incarnadina."

I finger my schnoz. Having that be a little smaller might not be such a bad thing. "I tracked him down, fired his lair and staked him this morning right after breakfast."

Both men's heads jerk back in astonishment.

"That takes care of _that_ problem," Ramsey beams, his green eyes sparkling.

They exchange glances. Amundsen leans forward again. "There's no doubt in my mind, detective. If you want the job, it's yours. I know this is sudden, and that's there's a lot going on right now, but think about it and get back to me, will you? Within the next month, say?"

"I will."

Amundsen proffers that enormous paw again. I shake it, and he leaves.

Ramsey grins at my bewildered expression. "Now, as your lawyer, there're just a few things...." He takes down my insurance agent's information, tells me he'll take care of everything around my property.

"I've taken the liberty of obtaining a new car for you, DJ. It's licensed to my family so it can't be traced back to you. Your car and license plate may be known to the vampires, and I'd like to ensure you have some anonymity and peace as you travel home today. It would ease my and Jan's minds considerably, too."

How considerate of them!

"And now, I know you're anxious to be on your way so let me take you down to the parking garage." He takes my hand, wraps it above his elbow, and escorts me to the elevator and down to the garage.

We first go to my car and grab my stuff. Ramsey then leads me over to a lovely new black Mercedes CL550 coupe. He opens the trunk and drops in my suitcase.

"We also took the liberty of loading up your cats. They're waiting for you in the back seat."

I fling my arms around him in a big hug. "Thank you so much for everything."

He hugs me back, laughing, and then steps away, his hands on my forearms. "No, thank _you_ , DJ. You gave us our daughter back. That's a gift we can never repay." He hands me the car keys.

I get in, buckle up, start the engine, and back out. Ramsey waves and smiles. And I'm on my way.

As I head north on 35E, I reflect on my day. It's been intense and incredible, an emotional roller coaster the whole way. I fish in my pack for my cell, preparing to call my mom to let her know I'm on my way. A memory flashes onto my mind's screen: Ryan's face as he looked at me in my hospital bed before leaving. That utter steadfastness. A tear slides.

Another face creeps into my mind, though. It isn't Amundsen's as he's offering me that unexpectedly wild job, Ramsey's grateful one as he's handing me car keys or even the President's—his voice and words.

It's the look in Tristan's eyes and his voice as he said, "When you're ready to love again, I hope you'll look my way first."

A new picture overlays it immediately—Ryan's face as he proposed to me.

I release the tourniquet on my pain.

To see how DJ weathers this and another coming storm, turn the page to read the first chapter of the sequel, _Bring It Home_.

# Bring It Home

## Chapter 1

I brake to a stop in front of my parents' house outside Grand Rapids, Minnesota and blow a breath up through my bangs, squinting as the late-June sun refracts off the windshield. I'm glad I drove the four hours back here because I'm _so_ not ready to go back to work. My fiancé's death dug a hole in my heart that's still bleeding.

I'm grateful that Lieutenant Kennedy, my detective supervisor at the Minneapolis/Saint Paul police department, is an understanding man. He didn't even blink when I requested more time off when he stopped to say goodbye after the memorial service today. Nice of him, too, not to require me to fill out the official paperwork requesting it before I left town. He'd said I could do it via VPN. Mentally, I kiss my laptop.

An ironic brow quirks at Kennedy's remembered response, though. Far different from his insistence on a full report in his inbox before I left town the day after Ryan died. But, I think he had an ulterior motive. Kennedy's a man with great insight into humanity. His insistence had led to a critical epiphany for me about Ryan's death. I'd realized Ryan would have gladly sacrificed himself for the number of lives we saved. He'd been that kind of man. _But..._ that doesn't begin to heal the gaping hole in my heart.

My mom pops her head out the front door and motions for me to come inside. It looks like my parents got back an hour or so before me. I'd wanted to stay at the memorial until everyone else left.

My hands smooth the black fabric of my skirt over my thighs. My fingers are trembling. Maybe I should have waited before driving back after Ryan's service. Raven, my best friend, would have been okay with my staying with her another day or two. _But_. Saint Paul didn't really feel like home anymore. Not since the vampires burned down my house. And killed Ryan.

Sigh. I so don't want any demands on me right now. _But_. It's time to take up the reins of life again. I climb out of the car.

My dad boils out the back door into the garage, eyes wide. "DJ! Ashley's missing. Matt and Tina are frantic." He bolts toward the tan SUV showing "Itasca County Sheriff" on the door. "Come with me. We may need your nose."

I grab my bag and sprint around the back of the SUV, glad of the sensible flats I'd changed into for the drive back. Ashley, my twelve-year-old niece had been kidnapped by vampires last week while attending a summer drama program at a nearby college in St. Paul. Luckily, the local shapeshifters and I, under the supervision of the local FBI and police, had stormed the vampires' house that morning as part of our strategy to find Ryan. I hadn't even known she was missing. Too much had happened too fast, and I was too slow to act to prevent her abduction. Thanks to the properties of Tristan Dunham's blood, an Interpol supernatural consultant hired by the FBI, Ashley remembered nothing of the experience and had no vampire bite scars. But the episode left her parents understandably on edge. They don't know about the vampire angle or that the vampires kidnapped Ashley to get to me, or Matt and Tina'd be twice as freaked out.

Now Ashley's missing again. How? And more importantly, why? Can it be my fault again? I wrack my brain. Could one of the vampires have followed me up here? Figured out my family connections? Gotten car license numbers? House numbers? Ashley's phone number? Lured her off by herself?

_No, not again, no, please, not because of me._ My heart's thundering in my chest, lungs fluttering, starting to hyperventilate. I tell myself, _Breathe deeply, DJ._ _You don't know anything yet. Stop jumping to the worst conclusions...._

While I worry, my dad fires up the SUV and speeds down the driveway. I haul in a deep breath and swallow with difficulty. "What did Matt say?" I jam the seat belt buckle into its clasp and grip the arm rest as the truck's lousy shocks throw me into the air.

SUV trailing gravel dust, Dad handily controls the skid onto the blacktop and floors it. He flips the light bar's switch. "Ashley was supposed to be home at three-thirty after softball practice, and it's five now. There's no answer on her cell phone. Matt and Tina have called all her friends, but no one's seen her."

I adjure myself to think rationally. "Doesn't her phone have a GPS?"

Dad shoots me a glance and shrugs. "If she does, I don't think Matt or Tina know how to use it." My technophobic family. Mental eye-roll.

"Do you know what kind of cell phones they have?"

"No." Dad's sounding grim so I save my questions.

An ugly thought worms its slimy way into my mind. What if, on some subconscious level, Ashley's remembered the horror of vampires, the terror of being in their power? What if she's curled up in a fetal ball somewhere because of it, alone and defenseless? Crap. I can't let that happen to her. I scrabble in my bag for my cell, come up with it and call.

My brother Matt picks up. "Ashley?!"

"No, it's DJ. Dad and I are on our way into town to help look for her. What's her frame of mind been like lately?"

Dead silence. "What kind of question is that?" Matt's tone first lashes and then rises fearfully. "Do you think she's run away or suicidal?" I hear Tina's frightened voice in the background.

I'm aghast; I didn't mean to make things worse. "No! Nothing like that! Calm down." Matt reassures Tina.

"I'm just trying to get my head into where a twelve-year-old girl's would be right now. What've things been like there at your house since she's been home from camp?" I hear a screen door shut behind Matt, and outdoor sounds grow louder.

"Like a combination prison and fortress. You know Tina. She's always been an overprotective mother."

Like a female grizzly. "Yes, I've observed that," I state noncommittally. "How's Ashley been handling it?"

Matt sighs. "About like you would."

Ashley is a dead-ringer for me in the looks department, and our temperaments are similar, which has led to a lot of clashes with Tina in the past year as Ashley's started to jockey for more independence. I've always personally hated unnecessary restrictions. Being "checked up on" always rubbed me the wrong way. In fact, a former overly possessive boyfriend found himself summarily kicked to the curb for just that reason. After being smothered, the feeling of freedom had been absolutely intoxicating.

I sit back in my seat. "I'll bet Ashley took the opportunity to stretch her wings a little. How about if I call her?"

Matt muses. "You think that's all it is?"

"Like I said...."

Matt sighs again. "Okay, have Dad call me if she answers her phone for you." We hang up.

Dad raises his eyebrows, green eyes steady on the road. "You really think--?"

I check my instincts, say "I'd put money on it," and scroll through the numbers on my cell. "If she answers, you're supposed to call Matt."

Dad nods, lets up on the gas and flips the light bar switch to "Off." Nice that he trusts my instincts that much.

I find and select my niece's number. After four rings, she picks up. "Aunt Deej!" The gladness in her voice instantly heartens me.

"Hey, sweetie! How are you?"

Dad picks up his phone. We're now entering the outskirts of town.

"Just great. It's gorgeous out today. I'm over at Blandin Park with a couple of the girls from softball. Wanna come wading with us?"

"Normally, sweetie, I'd love to, but there's a little trouble at home. Your folks're pretty concerned because you didn't come right home after softball practice."

"But I never said I'd be right home!" Frustration and exasperation put sharp edges on her voice.

"I'm sure you didn't," I soothe. "But they expected you home, and you aren't, so things are a little frantic there."

Explosive sigh. "I'd better get home then." Resignation wrings all life from her voice.

"Your grandpa and I are on our way into town. Want a ride home?" I quirk an eyebrow at Dad, who's already wrapped up his call to Matt. He nods.

"Sure." Her voice is flat.

"We'll be there in about five minutes." We hang up. "She's at Blandin Park with a couple of friends."

"Nobody's going to be happy at Matt's house today." Dad rubs a weary hand over the back of his neck.

"Except maybe Tina because she gets to emote all over everyone and be the martyr." I glance at Dad out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, sorry," I murmur with fake regret. "Did I say that out loud?"

Dad guffaws, "You know you did." He rubs the hand over his neck again. "It wouldn't be so funny if it weren't true."

Both of us clam up because it would be far too easy to indulge in a Tina-bashing session. Matt married her right out of high school when he was the big jock on campus and she the head cheerleader. How romantic, high school sweethearts and all that. Beautiful Tina was a spoiled only child then, who was used to getting her way by whatever means possible. She never grew up or out of that phase, so my oldest brother has lived his entire married life as the only adult in the family. And has the gray hair at age thirty-five to prove it.

Dad pulls into the parking lot at Blandin Park. Ashley's waiting with her friends on a nearby park bench. Her brunette hair's in pigtails, and she waves good-bye to them and walks toward us. Though long-bodied and coltish, her normally upright posture is slump-shouldered. It's hard to see her spirit so squashed. I step out and meet her with a hug. She hugs me back hard

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I say to the top of her head.

"It's not your fault, Aunt Deej." We slip into the back seat together.

"It kind of is, honey." I remind her. "You were abducted in the Twin Cities because of that case I was on."

"But that was there! I'm back home now!" Ashley's eyes brim with tears. "Do I have to be a prisoner for the rest of my life because of it?"

I meet Dad's smiling eyes in the rearview mirror. Yep, there's a little bit of the drama queen in our Ashley, too.

I tamp down my own grin. "It's only been a week or so since it happened, Ash." She examines her worn athletic shoes. I continue, "A certain level of over-communication about what's going on when and where would be a really good thing to do for a while _and_ answering your phone whenever they call instead of blowing them off. Your parents were justifiably terrified for you, you know."

"I know." She's not sulky, just resigned.

"Do you mind a little auntly advice?"

She slants a smiling golden glance my way. "'Auntly' – is that even a word?"

"It is now," I rejoin stoutly. Ashley grins. "I'd start with a heartfelt apology and work your way into a deal about communicating the whens and wheres better. And teach your folks how to track you using the GPS on your phone." She rolls her eyes.

"Or you could be grounded until you're twenty," I point out in my most reasonable tone.

"Your Aunt DJ was grounded until she was thirty and just look what it did to her," Dad joins in solemnly, his eyes on hers in the rearview mirror.

"Oh, Grandpa, she's not even _that_ old now!"

He looks offended. "If thirty's _that_ old, what am I?"

"Ancient!" She quips back, eyes sparkling.

Dad laughs and pulls the SUV into Matt and Tina's driveway. I lean over and sneak a kiss onto her cheek. "Lead with the apology and lots of remorse and hugs. Works every time."

"Thanks, Aunt Deej." She slides out of the car.

"How about a hug for your ancient grandpa?" Dad steps out of the SUV and gets a hug and kiss both. I join him in the front seat, and we wait until the back door in the garage slams. The ranch-style house is a mirror image of my folks' place.

Ashley's "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry...." floats clearly out the screen door. No shouting, no hysteria, no slapping or wailing. Whew!

"Hmm, I seem to remember that apology, remorse and hug approach. It _was_ an awfully effective tactic." Dad's eyes twinkle as he puts the SUV in reverse.

I grin cheekily at him. "Gotta pass the good ones down to the next generation."

Matt exits the side door, and Dad puts the SUV back in park. Matt jogs over to my open window.

"Thanks for bringing her home." Matt's weary eyes are a more faded version of my dad's. With a pang, I recall how bright they were in his senior picture. "She's in trouble for not answering her mom's calls, but things are smoothing over. DJ, you'd better stay out of Tina's way in the near future."

"She learned that the abduction was because of my job, didn't she?"

Matt nods, his eyes regretful.

I shrug. "I advised against keeping it from her for this very reason. Now, it looks like a conspiracy to keep her ignorant rather just to keep family tensions low. How'd she find out?"

"Her cousin's in law enforcement in the Twin Cities. He heard it through the grapevine and passed it on."

"Someone broke confidentiality," I mutter. "If I was a stickler for policy and procedure, I'd turn Tina's cousin in, but I won't. Be sure to tell Tina that I didn't. Maybe it'll get me out of the dog house sooner."

Mike grimaces sardonically. "Don't count on it."

The front door slams open, and Tina barrels out, blue eyes blazing.

Dad mumbles, "Oh, lord."

"How dare you?!" She shrieks, marching around the front of the SUV and up to my window, pushing Matt out of her way. "You have the nerve to come this close to _my_ house after what you did to _my_ little girl? You have a lot of balls!" Her pretty tanned face is reddened, her blond curls bouncing around her face. She's dressed in a skimpy halter top, short shorts and bedazzled sandals. Once a prom queen, always a prom queen – in her own mind.

Dad leans over toward the window. "I brought her with me, Tina. I thought she might help us find Ashley. And she did. She was the one who got Ash to answer her phone."

"What?!" Tina's over-blown outrage is almost comedic. "Why would she answer your calls and not mine?" She shoves her face into mine. "Have you been turning my own daughter against me?"

Something inside me snaps, and true outrage flares. I cross my arms and lean back in the seat. "No, and in fact, I'm not the problem here. My finely honed detective instincts tell me it's this kind of behavior causing the problem, screeching through the front yard like a reject from a Jerry Springer show in an outfit ten years too young for you. You're providing enormous entertainment for your neighbors and endless embarrassment for your family."

Tina glances around and surreptitiously pulls the legs of her shorts down; through the side mirror, I see the neighbor across the street drop a curtain back into place.

"You bitch!" Tina growls. "Let me tell you something, you self-righteous—"

"No, let me tell you something, Tina." Aggressively I poke my head out the window at her. "I rode here in a panic on the day of my fiancé's funeral because _your_ relationship with _your_ daughter is so lousy that she won't answer your calls. It's time for you to figure out how to be the mature woman and mother she needs instead of a drama queen and a Barbie doll."

Silence resounds.

"Let's go, Dad."

Tina's mouth hangs open as we back down the driveway and out onto the street. Head down, Matt walks toward the house, his steps dragging.

Regret swamps me. I've just made his life hell for the next week. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

A few blocks later, Dad clears his throat. "I'll bet that felt good."

"Yeah, in the moment." I grunt, squinting out the dash, sigh and dig in my bag for sunglasses. "I'd be really surprised if my frank little speech causes any soul-searching. Instead, I'll be the bad guy, the enemy who victimized poor little her. She'll just use it to distract herself from the honest internal work she needs to do."

Putting on sunglasses, I gaze out the window beside me. "My only excuse is burying Ryan today."

Dad huffs, "That's a helluva good one, I'd say." He dons his own sunglasses. "How'd you get so smart?"

I regard him ruefully over the top of my glasses. "Same way you did. We arrest people every day who make bad choices and then blame everyone around them for the mess their lives are in."

"Every day," he agrees, his eyes on the road. Dad picks up his cell off the seat and calls Mom to tell her we found Ashley. The rest of the ride is silent.

In my folks' driveway, I climb out of the SUV and open the Mercedes' trunk to collect new luggage that holds brand new clothes and everything else I own in the world. Except a garage full of yard maintenance junk behind the burnt-out shell of my house in Saint Paul.

I'd felt so settled in my life before all this – fiancé, house, car, good job, cats. Now I feel like my whole life could blow away in a stiff breeze. Ryan was my anchor.

I don't ever want to see my property again—which is why I'd gratefully signed on the dotted line today authorizing its sale. Why? That's where I took the terrible step of ending Ryan's vampire existence on its first day, the day he died as a human, the day they "brought him over." I shudder. That memory's still too fresh and horrific.

The car—it's gone too. John Ramsey, the Twin Cities pack leader and my lawyer, replaced it with this beautiful Mercedes licensed to him. He didn't want vampires to track me by my car. He'd said it was the least he could do after I'd restored his vampire-enslaved daughter to him. I smile. Ramsey and his wife are wonderful people. They'd been at the service today, too.

My throat thickens when I recall everyone's kind words earlier. _Enough of that. Moving on._

I eject the handles from my suitcases. But, before I can try to maneuver both of them into the house at the same time, my dad's hand intervenes, appropriating a suitcase.

"Thanks, Dad."

He deadpans, "We don't need any cataclysms in the driveway."

A tiny smile at his reference to my intermittent lifelong klutziness is all I can manage. After the tension of finding Ashley and the confrontation at Matt's house, fatigue and grief descend on me like an avalanche.

My tall, rangy father assesses me with kind eyes. A long-fingered hand scratching through his graying red hair tells me he's uneasy at what he sees. He slides a companionable arm around my shoulders and leans in to kiss me on the temple.

"How're you holding up, sweetie?" His quiet baritone is a balm to my soul.

"I'm okay. Glad to be here with you and Mom."

"We're glad you made it back before dark." His knowing eyes catch the droop to my shoulders and lifeless eyes. "How long's it been since you've worked up a good sweat?"

"Oh...?" I frown. Exercise has been the last thing on my mind.

He holds the side screen door for me as I lift my suitcase up the steps and follows me in with the other. "Why don't you change into some workout clothes and meet me downstairs in, say, fifteen minutes? I know some furry kids who need their mom's attention, first, though."

I smile as the familiar plumed tails and wide green eyes of my cats greet me inside the door. They stand eagerly in the middle of the kitchen floor. My mom hands me a bag of their favorite treats, and I dole them out, administering some desperately needed pets–for them _and_ me.

Mom proffers the cat brush next. "Diane just called. She's about an hour out." I crouch and ply the brush. First, Cody, the black one, then, Petey, the mackerel tabby, lean into the brush strokes, purring thunderously. "She's bringing Great-grandmama Evelyn's trunk with her."

Cool, my Aunt Di's on her way. Mom just recently told me that my Great-grandmama Evelyn had been a "serious practitioner" of various arts, implying that magic was one of them. Two centuries ago, she'd've been labeled a witch. When I'd had vivid dreams of Ryan the night before he died, Mom told me Great-grandmama used to have dreams about people right before they died, too.

Mom's brunette hair in a ponytail, the same shade as mine, slides over her tank-topped shoulder as she opens the oven door. Her slim, shorts-bottomed torso bends as she slips a hot dish (known as a casserole everywhere else but Minnesota) into the oven.

She turns. As I stand upright from the cats, I see her and Dad exchange a glance. Her medium brown eyes are worried. He cocks his head and arches his brows in a consoling way.

I mentally shake my head. Long-married couples. They might as well as have telepathy. She just asked him if I was going to be okay. He told her I would, given time.

Yeah, but it'll be a while. Though stoic outside, inside, my whole being is crying for Ryan. How I miss him.... For me, he was sunlight and laughter, passion and pleasure, peace, safety and trust, all rolled into a beautiful male form.

Dad follows me into my room with the other suitcase, plumed tails trailing at our heels. Smiling, he closes the door on our little reunion.

We have a great deal of catching up to do, the kitty kids and I. I've left them in strange places a lot lately. "I know, sweeties," I croon, lavishing pets and scratches. "I've left you alone for too long. I'm sorry." I can almost hear their little minds coaxing, "Make lap!"

Chin and head rubs. "Later, sweeties. But you can come downstairs and hang with me and Dad if you want."

We carry on this (admittedly silly) conversation while I change into my white dobok—a.k.a. karate uniform that had hung abandoned in my closet here—and wrap a black belt with three gold stripes around my waist twice and square-knot it.

Then we head for the basement. My dad teaches advanced martial arts techniques so he has a full dojo there. Forty-five minutes later, I re-enter the kitchen awash in sweat. My muscles, freshly stretched, feel loose and tired in the healthiest way. My heart is lighter too, a major blessing.

Mom's pulling the hot dish back out of the oven; a cherry pie waits on the counter next to a green salad. "Diane called again. She's just left Grand Rapids. She'll be here in about fifteen minutes."

Time enough for a shower and a change. That accomplished, I enter the dining room/kitchen area as Aunt Diane, my favorite aunt, bursts into the house, calling, "Hey, I'm here!"

A muscular woman of about five seven, she opens her arms and hugs me, rubbing my back. Says in my ear, "Honey, I'm so sorry about Ryan. I've been praying for you." My family isn't the churchy type, but we believe. We've all seen enough to know that there's something bigger than us operating in the world.

I step back, nodding and meeting her caring brown eyes, so like my mother's. She loops an arm around my waist and kisses my cheek. Her ash blond, shoulder-length curls waft the scent of Aveda products to my sensitive nose.

Through the bustle of carrying her luggage and the trunk in, I consider these older members of my family: stalwart, compassionate, intelligent. I'm so blessed to have these people in my corner, especially at a time like this.

After we've seated ourselves and filled our plates, Aunt Diane glances over at my dad. "Jim, I ran across a pack of wolves about five miles from here."

Dad sits up at attention. "That's unusual. It's broad daylight. What were they doing?"

"There appeared to be some road-killed deer along that stretch. They were eating, but...." She frowns

"What?" Dad prompts.

"Two fed from deer carcasses on the shoulder of the road. The other three stood in the middle of the blacktop, facing my car. I honked and rolled toward them to get them to move out of the way. They wouldn't budge. They watched me for about five minutes before moving aside. Their bodies were different from standard wolves, too, more like a cross between a greyhound and a wolf. Their eyes were strange, too. Different from the wolves' eyes I've seen in pictures."

An itch of recognition scratches at the back of my mind. "I didn't think wolves were carrion eaters," I posit.

"That depends on a few things," my mom, the veterinarian and local carnivore expert, ticks them off on one hand. "The time of year, if fresh meat is available, whether they're returning to their own kill, how hungry they are. But I've never heard of any eating road kill in broad daylight."

Dad's eyebrows meet. "Their blocking the road and watching you seem like uncharacteristically aggressive behavior. I wonder if they're what's been attacking livestock hereabouts. My office has received some complaints from hikers about an aggressive pack over the past week or so, too. Thanks, Diane. I'll give the DNR a call about them tomorrow."

The rest of the meal passes with comfortable catch-up chat that gets adjourned to the living room after kitchen cleanup.

I sit on the flowered loveseat, a cat plastered against each thigh. I have to referee some sibling rivalry over who gets my lap, but things settle into loud purrs as soon as my attention is equally divided. Dad reads the local newspaper as my mom and Aunt Diane share family gossip. By about ten o'clock, yawns begin punctuating the conversation.

When they all go off to bed, I escort the kitty kids to my room to ensure that night-time high-jinks don't disturb human sleepers. Then, I ease out the back door. I need some fresh air, freedom and forgetfulness for just a little while.

I doff and fold my clothes, laying them on the steps to the deck. I visualize a gold, black-spotted coat, nose bracketed by black racing stripes and a long, lean body built for speed. After a flash of white light, I'm a cheetah.

I became a shapeshifter a little over a week ago, intentionally bitten and turned by a former collar, Edward Kemp. He'd always had the hots for me—totally unrequited, of course. But, as his first act after serving his time, he'd intended to turn me so he could have me for his mate. Big mistake. He paid for it with his life. On the night of my First Full Moon, I had to have sex with a similar shapeshifter or die. Instead, I'd had a mind-blowing encounter with the feline shapeshifter who killed Kemp. If it hadn't been for the primal, driving instinct of my First Full Moon, I'd never have done it. Why? It happened later the night I released Ryan's vampirized body, the same night they turned him. The night he died. The guilt still chews at me. Even though an experienced shapeshifter, Ramsey's wife, told me there'd been no avoiding it after the males fought and one died...and the fact that the feline shapeshifter saved my life.

My mind shoves the memories away. _No,_ I remind myself _. I need peace. I need freedom._ I indulge in a long, luxuriant stretch and a huge yawn. Next, a quick lope down the hill and into the nearby woods. The wind of my passing strokes my face and ears. Underfoot, crushed woodland herbs waft sweetness to my hypersensitive nostrils.

Summer in the great north is truly a little bit of heaven, depending on the bugs. Tonight, they're not bad. Maybe they don't know what to make of a cheetah. Detritus from last fall and loose sandy soil cushion my pads. Beyond the boles of trees appears a long meadow, clearly illuminated by the waning moon. The need for speed whispers seductively. _Why not?_ I stretch my lithe form into a relaxed run. Minutes later, I reach the meadow's opposite side.

Howls reach my ears from some distance ahead. I pause. Sniff. They're downwind. That itchy little recognition I felt at the dinner table makes sense now. Last time I smelled that scent, it was mixed with gas fumes, grilled dinners and freshly mown grass in my St. Paul back yard. Werewolves.

Indecision paws at me. There's one of me, five of them. Should I attempt an amicable meeting? Given their aggressive posture with Aunt Di, would it even be possible? I decide to proceed with caution and have a closer look.

I crouch low and sneak quickly through the low scrub and snake my way between trees. In a clearing beyond, the pack gathers around a fresh deer carcass. They must've gotten tired of road kill. Yep, five of them. Long and lean instead of broad and rangy like normal wolves. Taller than regular wolves too, by about four inches at the shoulder. Longer snouts. Shorter ears. Brushy tails curl over their backs.

Hmmm. What to do? I sink into a crouch and watch. An alpha male and female, a couple of beta males and another female. They seem relatively young, except the alpha pair. The alpha pair continually growl and nip at the younger ones, ensuring they know who's supposed to eat first.

Should I approach them? I know territory is everything to wolves, and that they'll steal cougar kills if they can. But this is my family's land, so they're trespassing. Would they attack me? What if I were in human form? Would that be less threatening?

Curiosity, one of my besetting...attributes, wins out. Another white flash of light. Naked, in human form, I lean back against a tree's rough bark and cross my arms and legs. Pretty cool, my stance says. I face the wolves across the meadow.

Of course, the flash caught their attention at once. The alpha male trots toward me, head and tail high. Not attack mode. That's good. The female is in close pursuit; the other two males saunter slowly after. The only other female attacks the deer carcass. She's obviously famished.

"Hello," I call casually, my tone friendly. "I'm not here to threaten you. I'm visiting family close by, and I wasn't aware of any other bi-forms in the area."

This brings all the advancing wolves to an abrupt halt. Distracting a werewolf from an instinctive territorial reaction had been an effective tactic for me before. Reminding them that they're human doesn't hurt either.

The alpha shivers, then grunts, joints popping, muscles and tendons sliding and at last, emits a pained howl. He stands upright after several intense moments. The alpha female begins to change as well. I'm so glad I don't have to go through that. It looks painful. My psychic abilities make me a "blessed shapeshifter." More magic equals the white flash change? Probably; at least that's how Tristan Dunham, the Interpol expert, explained it last week. I'll have to check Great-grandmama's books to see what she says about it.

"We claim this land." A Russian accent. Interesting. He's medium height yet broad-shouldered with long dark hair and a full beard. The alpha oozes menace.

"I'm not sure this territory is open for claiming, sir. My family has lived on it for a few decades now. Have you requested hunting rights from my mother?"

"We have no need to request rights." He spits contemptuously. "We are strong. We take what we want."

"Where you come from, maybe you do. But on the North American continent, it's customary to ask the local pack leader for permission to stay and hunt in their territory." Not that I know who the local pack leader is or what pack customs apply here. I'm winging it.

By this time, the female has completed her change. She moves up behind her mate; her head comes to his shoulder. She slides a possessive arm across his chest.

I make no move. I'm _so_ not interested in him. By the stench, he's stayed in his second form continuously for days, maybe weeks. _Eeuw_. I'll bet his breath would kill a rooster from ten feet.

"Who are you?" Her voice is low, throaty, Russian-accented, too. Her long dark hair looks tangled, matted if her level of personal grooming matches his.

"Someone who obviously knows more about the local area than you do. I understand you've only been in the area for a week or so. Where did you come from?"

"That is our affair," The alpha male stiffens. "How do you know how long we've been here?"

"Like I said, I have family and grew up around here. For instance, I know that the local authorities have received reports of livestock killings and tourists your pack has threatened. Tourism is a major industry with Chippewa National Forest and the headwaters of the Mississippi so close. Scare many more tourists, and you'll get silver shot in your butts as an inducement to leave. Kill any more livestock, and there'll be a wolf hunt with silver bullets for destruction of property. It's your choice. Co-exist in peace, or prepare to be hunted with silver."

The other two males have shifted now. They mutter to each other. I hear faintly, "...didn't know we were in the States...." Not a Russian accent, not Midwestern either, but definitely native English speakers. Both are short but broad and muscular, light-haired. They look alike from this distance. I tip my head up, sniffing. Their scents are similar. Brothers? Twins?

The alpha male considers, then growls, and stalks forward a few steps. I don't turn a hair. The female holds him back.

"What kind of shapeshifter are you?" She asks slowly. "I've never seen one shift in a flash of light instead of changing the body."

"What does your nose tell you?" I'm not giving up any information. Not with that alpha male's attitude. He's an asshole. However, she may be the voice of reason and influence him to better behavior.

"You're a feline shifter, but like none I've ever scented." She sniffs hesitantly. "And you're just past your First Full Moon. But you've shifted a lot."

I feel my eyebrows rise. Two pieces of information I wasn't aware I was giving off. I obviously need more shapeshifter education. It might be time to call Ramsey.

I'll dig a little more to see what else I can learn for Dad. "Did you come into Canada through Alaska?"

"No more questions!" The alpha male roars, lunging toward me, head low, teeth bared. With that reaction, he's spent _way_ too much time in his second form. I make no move. Behind him, at the carcass, I see the little female cringe at his roar. Hmmm. Time for a little display of my own.

I shift. And charge him, roaring in my turn. He rears back, nearly stumbling on his suddenly braking heels. The whites of his eyes shine in the moonlight. Yeah, when a Siberian tiger charges, he'd best pay attention.

They all sprint toward the trees beyond their kill. The young males are yelling. I smell urine. Good. Intimidation sometimes goes a long way toward making a point.

I shift again, this time back to cheetah and accelerate in the opposite direction. Time to go home and see if Mom's awake to consult on the local pack. Those wolves obviously aren't local. And, sure, they can follow my scent back to the house, but will they? If they're smart, they won't. If they aren't, well....

The Russian woman's comments about my scent intrigue me. She's probably never scented a feline shifter like me before because I'll wager there aren't many of us. I'm not limited to one or even two forms. Because I was scratched and bitten by nearly all the big cats as I was growing up, that gives me more options than most. My mom runs a rescue sanctuary and captive breeding program for rare exotic animals, mostly the big cats. One of the great treats of my youth was helping bottle-feed baby exotics. Hand-rearing makes them easier to work with at the zoos, supposedly. But the babies have mighty sharp claws and teeth. The theory, from Tristan, is that their saliva and secretions from the glands in their paws entered my blood stream, allowing me to shift into any animal that ever bit or scratched me. It's one of the few things about being a shapeshifter that I love.

I get back to the house, dress and pick up my cell phone. Sit on the deck's steps. Consider my options. Do I call Patrick Donovan, the second in command in Saint Paul? Or John Ramsey, the pack leader? I decide to call Ramsey; this Russian-led pack strikes me as unusual. Patrick might not have the clout or knowledge to make the right decisions.

I call Ramsey. It's still before midnight, and on a weekend. He'll probably be up, monitoring the shapeshifters' nightly patrols around the Twin Cities. They've been on high alert since we wiped out the known vampire nests last week. They'll be watching carefully for any stragglers.

"John Ramsey." His resonant bass is familiar, calm and clear—and wide awake, thankfully.

"Hi, John, it's DJ."

"Hi, DJ. Where are you?"

"Up at my folks' place in Grand Rapids. Thanks so much for coming to the service today."

"We wanted to be there for you."

"I definitely appreciate it. Say, I heard that some odd wolves were being a nuisance around here. When I went out for a run just now, I came upon them at a kill. Werewolves. When I shifted and chatted with them, they came across to me as very different from Patrick and his gang. And it bothered me."

"How so?"

"They seemed feral. Like they'd spent too much time in wolf form. The alpha male especially was very aggressive and wolf-like in his behaviors in human form. He warned me off right away, saying they'd claimed this as territory. He rebuffed any suggestion that they consult the local pack leader. From the reports, they haven't been around for more than a week or two. I heard one of the younger wolves say he didn't even know they were in the States. The youngest female didn't change into human shape at all. She took the opportunity to fill up at the kill while the others were distracted. Her manner was very submissive. Both the alpha male and female had Russian accents." I add a few more details.

Ramsey considers. "Shapeshifters have been known to go rogue from time to time, which is why the FBI thought of shapeshifters as psychopaths for so long while we still held onto our secrecy policy. I'm not aware of any rogues right now, but we don't see packs of rogues here in the cities. An occasional single, maybe. Why don't I call Amundsen? He would know if any rogue packs have been reported in south central Canada." Amundsen is the North American shapeshifter big kahuna, grand Pooh-Bah.

"Thanks so much, John. I appreciate your willingness to take the next step."

"It's all part of the job, DJ."

I remember I wanted to ask him about something. "The female told me she could tell I'd just passed my First Full Moon, and that I'd shifted a lot. I feel like I'm operating a bit light in my shapeshifter education. How can I learn more?"

"Oh, that's right." He muses. "You haven't been through orientation. God knows, we didn't have time last week. Check out the information on the Twin Cities pack website. There's more on Amundsen's site. I'll send you the URLs, an ID and initial password, too."

"Great. I'll be sure to check them out."

He takes a breath as if to say more. Pauses. Silence.

I yawn. "Well, it's been a long day. I'm going to go."

He's not quite ready to hang up, though. "DJ. Don't engage this pack again. Five to one are poor odds, especially now that they know what you can shift into. A mock-charge won't deter them next time."

"Okay, John. I won't. At least not without silver shot."

I can almost see him rolling his eyes. "And a couple of other shooters, please," he drawls drily. "You're too brave, sometimes."

I smile. "Okay."

"Get some rest. You need it. When I see you next, I want to see some natural color in your face, all right? Not just the fake stuff."

Is everybody a makeup critic? Just last week, Raven, my best friend, accused me of shellacking it on. "Okay, John. I'll be good."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he mock-growls.

I can't resist teasing him a little. "You know me that well already?"

"Lieutenant Kennedy and I have had a couple of interesting conversations."

I grin. "Why, that dirty snitcher. I thought my personnel file was supposed to be confidential."

John laughs. "Just sharing some professional notes on key personnel. Be flattered. You're very important to a lot of people around here."

I'm more than flattered; I'm touched. "Thank you."

He wishes me a good night. We disconnect.

I hear a familiar howl in the distance, nearer than I like. _Dammit_. They're choosing to be confrontational. Stupid but not surprising.

My mom steps out of the back door.

"What're you doing up?" I ask.

"Couldn't sleep. Couldn't settle down. And I overheard your conversation with John Ramsey through the open window."

I grimace. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be loud."

She rubs my arm. "You weren't. Shapeshifter hearing, sweetheart, remember? There's no privacy." My mom had confided to me during the crisis last week that she's a shapeshifter, too. Bitten, like me; not born, like Ramsey and Amundsen.

We both consider the near tree line. She asks, "You think they'll come to the house?"

"Probably. The alpha male didn't seem the conciliating type. Should we go out and meet them?"

"Definitely not." My dad steps out of the house with a shotgun. He hands my mom the other one he's carrying, then reaches into his jeans pockets and offers her a handful of shells.

"Don't I get a gun?" I pout, humorously.

"No, daughter dear," Dad pats me on the head. "Just sit back and let the old pros work. This isn't our first rogue pack."

Through the door's screen, Aunt Diane mimics my pout, "Having a party without me?" She flips on the back yard light.

Dad turns to face her. "Better stay inside, Diane. There's a rogue werewolf pack coming this way."

"Oh, is that what they were?" She's totally calm. Shouldn't she be freaking out? Then I remember. Great-grandmama Evelyn made no secret of the supernatural side of life to her family. "I'd never really seen one, even though Grandmama told us about them."

She exits the house and holds out her hand for Mom's shotgun. "Here, Kath. You shift. With four of us, two shooters and two shifted, we'll be able to back them down."

Dad regards Aunt Diane skeptically, "Really? You? A shooter?"

She regards him haughtily but with little smile, "Did you forget I'm former military? With sniper training? I also just finished my concealed carry course and certification, so I'm in good practice."

Dad shakes his head. "I must've forgotten. You Fairchild women. Always pulling a fast one on a guy."

Mom hands the shotgun and shells over. We both re-enter the house, slip out of our clothes. Mom dons a loose robe and holds it closed with her arms.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"This is my territory they're invading, and I'm going to refuse them hunting rights. Then tell them how long they have to get off my land." Her eyes are fiery. She's a little worked up about it—never seen her get all territorial. A new side of my mother.

I change.

When Aunt Diane opens the door for us, I glide out on soft paws. I'm back in my Siberian tiger shape. Dad's broken open his shotgun and is sliding in two shells. Aunt Diane copies him. Both close up the shotguns.

The howl again. Much closer. They're just inside the tree line now. Mom and I fan out, flanking Dad and Aunt Diane who are in the center.

When the pack breaks from the tree line at a dead run, Mom walks forward about four steps. I match them.

I hear Dad and then Aunt Diane cock their shotguns. They waited until the werewolves were in hearing range to do it. Smart move. I see the leaders slow their headlong charge to a trot. A face full of silver shot would kill one of them at this range. They slow and stop about a dozen yards away.

My mother's posture is regal and determined. "You have not asked for hunting rights on my land. Change and talk or attack and die." Short and to the point, that's my mom.

The alpha female changes. We wait patiently until she rises to face us as a human.

"This one," she indicates me with a scornful shrug of one shoulder, "Tells us we must ask you for hunting rights. How will you keep us from hunting your lands? We're faster than you and this one." Again that shrug at me.

"You're strangers to our ways. Otherwise, I'd be within my rights to order you shot right now. But because you are strangers, I'll be lenient. One time." My mother's tone is now menacing. "We bi-forms in the United States are very private, but we're also very organized. All I have to do is make one phone call, and a hunting party with ATVs and silver shot will be here within the half hour. Our local pack leader is very impatient with your sort. He hunts down and exterminates all rogues. You endanger our secrecy and the lives we've worked so hard to build here."

While she's been talking, the two young males creep slowly closer to me on the outside away from Diane's shotgun muzzle. The alpha male has sidled closer to my mother.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Dad has his shotgun pointed directly at the alpha male. Mom's not the only one feeling protective. I face the encroaching wolves.

The alpha male lunges for my mother. Dad pulls the trigger. The alpha flattens to avoid the shot. But his yip signals a hit. My mother throws off the robe and shifts in a flash.

Meanwhile, the two young males approach warily, carefully keeping me between them and Diane. As one, they lunge, jaws snapping. I lash out with massive clawed paws. Catch one across the jaw. The other evades and slashes at my side. Diane's shotgun roars. Takes the one slashing at me in the side, blowing a hole in him as wide as both my paws. I lunge for his stunned brother, catch him by the neck: crunch, shake, drop.

I turn in time to see a great lioness chasing the alpha male back toward the tree line. No sign of the young female. The alpha female just now enters the trees. After shifting, she must've immediately taken to her heels.

Aunt Diane props a hand on her hip, looking annoyed. "Well, that was fast. Your parties peak early."

Dad arches a humorous brow at her. "Blood-thirsty. Just like your sister."

She grins.

"Nice shot, by the way."

"Thanks."

I'm trying to lick my side. Hard to reach, since the slash is high, just behind my shoulder.

Mom strides up to me in her robe. "DJ, go ahead and change. That looks deep. Let me take a look at it."

Diane loads another shell and takes up a guard position.

Dad enters the house. Returns with a camera. The young werewolves have reverted back to human form in death. Their faces are nearly identical and heartbreakingly young. Just out of their teens.

I go into the house and change. Mom follows me in and then clicks her tongue after her examination. "Come on into the dining room. I want to put some Steri-strips on that."

"But it'll be healed by morning." There's a distinct whine to my voice.

My mother ushers me into the hallway. "Without Steri-strips, it'll scar."

"What? Why? None of my vampire bites scarred."

My mother shudders. "How I hate hearing that come out of my daughter's mouth! I'd give anything if you hadn't had to experience that, DJ." By this time, we're in the dining room.

"Me, too." Understatement—my tone clipped. She looks up at me, realizes the implications and looks down, abashed. She goes to a cupboard, retrieves some betadine, swabs me down, and affixes the strips, applying gauze and tape in case of leaks.

"Shapeshifter bites scar, even us blessed shifters. And they heal a little slower."

Tristan, the Interpol supernatural consultant, had used that phrase to describe us. He's one, too. "What exactly is a blessed shifter?"

"A shapeshifter of witch-blood descent. We're always bitten, not born." She's putting away her supplies. "As a result, we're pretty rare."

Interesting. I'll have to see if there's anything on the shapeshifter websites about us. Another thought occurs: "Couldn't you get in trouble for practicing medicine without a license?" I get up to go to my room.

She smiles a little and turns off the light. "Ol' Doc Gibb is quite content to let me minister to the local pack." Doc Gibb is the local internist and our family doctor for years.

"Well, I guess you _are_ the local animal doctor." I grin. She grimaces, rolls her eyes.

We head to bed.

The kitty kids are excited to see me. We catch up some more before I pull out my laptop and check my email. Ramsey's promised note is there with URLs, ID and password. For the next hour or so, I absorb all the shapeshifter lore my head can hold. There's very little on the blessed shapeshifter phenomenon, though. The Saint Paul pack's website has nothing on it. The North American pack's website only states: "Blessed shapeshifters (a.k.a. witch-bloods) are truly a blessing to any pack lucky enough to invite them in as members. Their psychic gifts and ability to identify vampires with one look makes them great resources in the war to keep our pack mates and children out of vampire hands. Their enhanced speed, strength and agility match or even in some few cases, exceed a vampire's. A blessed shapeshifter, always bitten, is always a member of a family with a long history of psychic gifts. Such gifts include prescience (precognition), extraordinary sight, hearing, smell, telepathy, telekinesis and other gifts of the mind. Once changed, their blood can exhibit unusual properties."

Pretty succinct, but it didn't tell me much I didn't already know. It also doesn't go into much detail about the unusual blood properties, and those are huge for the shapeshifter community. For example, the taste of Tristan's blood throws a young shapeshifter bonded to a vampire out of his/her bi-form. His blood also removes their memories of the traumatic events around their capture and enslavement (which is why Ashley doesn't remember her kidnapping). Only killing the enslaving vampire frees them, however. My blood makes me public enemy number one to vampires because it sets them on fire.

The website told me a whole lot about pack structure, customs, rules, regulations and lots of recommendations for how to keep the beast quiescent, especially during times of stress. So far, I haven't had much trouble with that. I guess I've always been too busy reacting to a crisis, and the change has always been easy and instantaneous....so it's hard for me to relate to some of it.

Then, my sharpened hearing picks up some unmistakable sounds. Someone's having very enthusiastic sex.

Hmm. I guess my dad really _does_ love that my mom's an animal–-as she confided in a joke last week. I smirk. Can't wait to twit her about it in the morning.

### Acknowledgements

The author deeply indebted to the Ladies Who Write: Genta, Renae, and Tina for beta reading, moral support, and creative input; and to Tom L., who connected me with Julie.

About the Author

A veteran corporate writer and trainer, Deb finally started writing fantasy fiction when the best writers of the genre just couldn't turn the books out fast enough. A former black belt in Tae Kwon Do, she lives in St. Paul, MN with three cats who occasionally deign to acknowledge her faithful service.

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