Witch Wolf (6 page)

"How does it go outside of pack law?" I asked.

"The alpha didn't approve it. She knows nothing about it. Can you keep it that way?" she asked.

I wondered for a few moments if it was a good idea. If the alpha found out, how much crap would I be in? I knew one thing without a doubt-the alpha's word was law, and Rosalin was breaking it. Either she believed in her capabilities as a werewolf enough that she could protect herself against the alpha, she had someone protecting her, or she was really putting her trust in me. Damn it. I had a feeling it was the latter.

I sighed. Without a contract, I was hesitant to take the case. The contract protects the client and the investigator. In the end, I wasn't the only one taking a huge risk.

"It's off the record," I said.

A look of relief flooded her features.

"Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

"I don't do charity work," I said, "and just because it's off the record doesn't mean there isn't a fee."

She smiled, and it was a smile that probably got her anything she wanted. "Of course," she said.

Her voice was a little too breathy. I frowned. I really hoped she understood we were talking about money.

Rosalin had given me her cell phone number before she left so that I could contact her. She'd also given me the name of her brother and his girlfriend and their telephone numbers. Henry Walker and Paula Meeks. I assured her that I'd begin my investigation tomorrow. I no longer had the afternoon free. Damn it. At least I got a decent retainer out of her. Yeah, that made things a lot better.

There were two things I needed to do before I got home. The first thing was to call Rit and find out exactly what had happened. In my line of business you learn not to take anything at face value.

"Hello?" It sounded like I'd woken her.

"Hey, Rit."

"Oh, hello, Kassandra."

"Were you asleep?" I asked.

"Yes, but it's okay. What is it that you need?" She was soft spoken and polite, as always.

"Sorry for waking you up, Rit, but I need to ask you a few questions about a phone call you received the other day. Does the last name Walker sound familiar to you?" I wasn't going to give out Rosalin's first name. I'd agreed to keep the investigation on the down low.

"No, it doesn't," she said thoughtfully. "What is this about?"

"I can't give you all the details. A person that knows my first name has contacted me, and she said you gave it to her. Do you remember getting a phone call in the past three days that had to do with me?"

"On Friday June connected a call to my office. It did seem a bit strange, now that I think of it.

She wouldn't give me her name, and she said that she specifically wanted to speak to you. I told her I was the only one available in the office, but that she could make an appointment with you.

She declined and hung up."

Interesting.

"How would someone get my legal name?" I asked. The only thing publicly known was Lyall.

Rit often gave her name out to potential clients to be friendly, but I liked mine remaining a mystery unless I was actively working a case. The only way a client would know my name was if we gave it to them. It meant a slighter risk of being harassed or attacked.

"Perhaps she was a former client?"

"No, it's not that. Well, thanks, Rit. I'll talk to you later."

"All right, Kass. If you need anything just let me know. Have a good night."

We hung up. Rosalin must've gotten my name from somewhere else. The police might've given it out, but I doubted that. They respected my privacy. I'd also managed to stay out of newspapers when I was working on the force. The only thing that ever showed up in print was my last name.

Hell, my phone number wasn't even listed. So, that meant that Rosalin was either connected to someone that I'd worked for, or knew, or that she'd done her own snooping and figured it out.

Either way, it made me wary. It made me cautious because she lied-and in my book, you absolutely cannot trust a liar.

It was midnight and I hadn't dug up any dirt on Rosalin Walker. She had a clean slate. At least, that's how it appeared. I'm just not one to be fooled by appearances. I'm suspicious by nature.

I closed the laptop and put the leftover pizza in the fridge. I walked into the bathroom, flicking the switch on the wall.

I washed off my makeup and started running a hot bath. My blouse fell to the floor as I looked in the mirror at the tattoo on my back.

"Should've gotten a wolf," I mumbled.

I got the tattoo about four years ago. It was before I'd been infected. The tattoo was of a raven with its wings spread wide. The feathers swooped out, tracing the line of my rib cage. The inside of its body and wings were woven with Celtic knot work. In the middle of the raven was a red Triskelion-the symbol of life, death, and rebirth. The raven's beak ended between my shoulder blades, and the tail feathers followed the lower line of my spine. Even if it wasn't a wolf, it was still something I was proud of and didn't regret. Becoming a werewolf hadn't changed the fact that the raven was my spirit animal. It was also the animal representation of the Goddess I dedicated myself to nine years ago. If anything, I was sure the raven understood the passage of transformation better than I did.

I stripped off the rest of my clothes and slid into the water, breathing a sigh of relief as the heat enveloped my body. I craved heat. It comforted me. It usually made me feel safe, but it suddenly felt like a false sense of security. I felt it in every fiber of my being as surely as I could feel the water holding me close. It was a growing sense of unease, a sense that something profound was about to happen. I sensed change before me and shuddered. I sank down deeper into the tub. I didn't want to face another trial, another opportunity for growth. Surely the Goddess understood that? Wasn't becoming a werewolf life altering enough?

"No," a small voice whispered inside my mind.

There wasn't any emotion to it. The voice was neither cold nor warm. It just was.

I shuddered, wondering what the Goddess had in store. The Morrigan is what a lot of witches would call my matron deity. A matron or patron deity is pretty much a feminine or masculine deity that a witch dedicates herself to. The spiritual connection is very personal. A lot of the time the witch is called to that deity through dreams or synchronicities. There are some witches who choose as their matron or patron the one they relate to most strongly. For example, a poet might be drawn to the Goddess Brighid due to her association with creativity and bards. The Morrigan is a triple Goddess of Battle who had called to me nine years ago.

I felt the breeze of beating wings against my face for an instant and quivered, as if the hand of her power caressed my aura. Weight like some great stone fell to the pit of my stomach.

Feeling deity in your personal space can be uncomfortable at best, and terrifying at worst.

I sank low into the water and closed my eyes, hoping that tomorrow would bring more clarity and less foreboding.

*

My search for Henry Walker was proving to be as unsuccessful as my mission to find anything about Rosalin Walker. I'd called Paula Meeks earlier in the afternoon and spoken with her. I'd tried to schedule a meeting and failed. Why? Paula Meeks worked full-time as a telemarketer.

She informed me that she was working overtime and was on call for the next couple of days. She gave me the name of her employer, a well-known telemarketer in the city. I'd called to confirm her lack of availability, just to be on the safe side. There'd been worry in her tone and I could tell over the phone that she regretted not being able to drop everything. Which is how I knew she'd schedule something as soon as she was availabile. I didn't like it because it meant that I'd have to drop whatever I was doing to make it for an impromptu meeting, but I couldn't exactly throw a bitchfest over it, either.

Rosalin had told me before she left the café that both of their parents had passed away some years ago. I'd also checked into that, not wanting to take her word for it. Who knew if she was lying about that too? The birth and death records stated clearly that she hadn't lied.

I was meeting Rupert at Guns Unlimited in twenty minutes. I'd taken the time to shower and dabbed essential oil on my pulse points to cover my scent as best as I could. I was hoping that patchouli was woodsy and werewolf enough to go undetected in a forest. It wasn't guaranteed to work, but it was worth the try.

I'd chosen a pair of charcoal gray jeans. They were tight enough to fit into my knee-high combat boots. I slipped the black knife into the top of the boot, tying the lace and making sure the knife stayed in place. I strode across the bedroom, falling into a crouch and drawing the blade in a fluid motion. I flicked my wrist and the blade opened. It was only four inches long, but it'd do the trick as a last resort. It had been a present from Rupert. The blade had been coated in silver.

I closed the knife and slid it back into my boot. The black thermal was snug, but it was comfortable and easy to move in. I pulled the sleeves up and slid the other two knives into the wrist sheaths I wore. They were also high content silver, but fortunately none of the silver was touching my skin and each blade I had was made with a grip. I called it my safety grip. It wasn't losing the knives that I had to worry about it. I learned the hard way that silver and lycanthropy is a big no-no. I've got the pentacle-shaped scar on my sternum to prove it. Thank Gods, it hadn't burst into flames like the crucifixes in old vampire movies. After three days of itching and bitching, symptoms like an allergic reaction, I realized the pentacle was trying to melt into my flesh. Luckily enough, once removed it had only branded the skin. Well, guess I didn't need to wear the necklace anymore.

I don't think it would have killed me if I'd left it on. A wound inflicted with silver forces our bodies to heal nearly as slowly as a human's would. A mortal wound inflicted upon a human is a mortal wound inflicted upon a lycanthrope when it's done with silver. The scar was once red and angry, but now it was a white, faded memory. I'd proven the stories right that silver to a vital organ takes a lycanthrope down. I was pretty sure my healing abilities wouldn't cover my arse if that ever happened. It did make me wonder just how far those healing abilities went, but I'm not willing to test any theories. Maybe I could find a volunteer?

The September air was cool as the sun set on the western horizon. I'd put on a thigh-length leather jacket to cover the Mark III in its holster, the wrist sheaths under the sleeves of my thermal, and the Pro .40 tucked into the back of my pants. The day I bought my guns I'd remembered to get more silver-coated ammunition, but I'd totally forgotten about the fact that I needed a special holster for the Pro .40. I was surprised to find that the Mark III fit an old holster that had been stuffed in a box in the back of my closet. Hurray for pack rats. You never know when something might come in handy.

I stepped out of the car as Rupert was locking the shop door. He was wearing a black leather jacket as well, and I chuckled softly. His shoes were expensive motorcycle boots. A pair of dark jeans and dark blue turtleneck completed his outfit. He'd taken his glasses off and gone from geek to something deadly in a matter of minutes. He'd even put gel in his hair, making the dark brown tresses look more like stylish porcupine spikes. At first glance, it wasn't noticeable that Rupert worked out. When he was wearing plaid shirts or shirts with Hawaiian motifs on them, it was easy to overlook. When Rupert dressed to kill, it was clear he was a formidable opponent.

"Who's car are we taking?" I asked, noticing that the Hummer H2 was M.I.A. There was only one other vehicle beside mine. I'd ridden in the Hummer a few times. I'd even practically begged Rupert to let me drive. He wouldn't. It was his pride and joy. So, where the hell was it?

The minivan beeped and I realized it was Rupert's. I laughed. "Oh Gods, I need a picture of this."

I went for my cell phone.

"Kass, get in the car."

"Oh come on, Rupe, you're dressed to kill and driving a Chrysler Town and Country. You're seriously not going to let me take a picture of this?" I grinned, putting my hands on my hips. I nodded toward the van and asked, "What happened to Phantom?" He'd named the Hummer "The Phantom" because it was swift, silent, and smoke colored.

"It's in the shop," he grumbled. "Get in."

"So, you got stuck with the soccer mom van."

"Kassandra," he said in his I'm-not-kidding tone.

I bit back another retort and climbed into the van.

"It's got more get up and go than you think," he said as he put the van in reverse, backing out of the parking lot slowly. He put the car in drive and then hit the gas. I hit the back of my seat with a loud thud and made a grab for the oh-shit handle.

Rupert laughed. "Now that was worth taking a picture of."

"You shithead," I said, but I couldn't help but laugh with him. "What is this thing for? Soccer moms with road rage?"

"Something like that." He leaned back in his seat. "I've got something for you." He grabbed a black duffel bag and threw it into my lap. I made a small
hmph
sound when it landed.

"It's in the bag," he said.

I opened the bag and widened my eyes. "Holy shit, since when do you need this many weapons?" There were two guns, a small collection of knives, and what looked like a large hunting knife. I pushed them aside to find a holster. I waited.

Rupert's blue eyes flicked to me and then back to the road. "It's for the Pro .40," he said.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. Gee, sometimes I'm slow. "How did you know I didn't have a holster for it?"

"Everything you've bought in the past few years has been from me, right?"

"Right."

He smiled flashing straight white teeth. "I remember what all of my customers buy, Kassandra.

It's part of my job."

"Rupert, sometimes you're just plain creepy."

"You have no idea."