Hunted (Riley Cray) (15 page)

Coffee. I need coffee
, I decided, sure that the caffeine would help to steady my nerves. I strode down the hallway in search of the break room, and more importantly coffee. Coffee fixed everything.

I heard jovial banter as I approached the break room. Three women sat around a small square table eating lunch, two of them looking younger than I was and the other old enough to be my mother. They looked polished in a way I rarely did, dressed in dark slacks and crisp white shirts that had probably never seen anything worse than an errant coffee stain. The sight of their manicured nails and pressed shirts made me feel like a slob in my blood smeared jeans.

Their conversation came to a lurching halt as I shuffled self-consciously into the room, the soles of my boots squeaking on the linoleum. I cringed at the sound, feeling more out of place than ever. It was at times like this that I wished I was really as invisible as I usually felt, and that I could just slip by unnoticed.

Risking a glance at them, I found the three women watching me with unabashed interest, their heads bent close together. I caught the words “werewolf girl” and “Johnson” and my shoulders slumped. It looked like news of my little altercation with Johnson in the parking garage had already spread around the office like wildfire and become lunchtime fodder for the masses. It turns out that even the FBI is prone to idle water cooler gossip.

In a flash I was transported back to my high school days. I shuddered at the memory of being the girl with no parents, always hovering on the fringes of the various cliques, never seeming to fit in anywhere. My time at college hadn’t met with much success either.

With just a couple of quickly whispered words I had been transformed into that unsure girl by a group of strangers. And that just pissed me right the fuck off.

Turning my back on the women, I stomped over to the coffee machine, trying to keep my hands from curling into fists at the sound of their whispered suppositions. Their judgments grated on my nerves, and set a fire in my gut. I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening while my jaw stiffened until my teeth ground together with near shattering force. I was beyond tired and frustrated, and what little patience I had left was rapidly wilting beneath the heat of my mounting anger. A snorting chortle from the older woman in the group was the final straw, and, like the proverbial camel’s back, my resolve broke.

My eyes bled over to gold in a single heartbeat, my anger lending strength to the wolf, calling her up from the dark recesses deep inside. By some small miracle I managed to avoid wolfing out right in the middle of the FBI lunch room, but the effort of keeping the wolf at bay made my entire body tremble.

I was able to pinpoint the exact moment that they realized something was wrong. The room went deathly quiet the instant their hindbrains kicked in, the part of them that instinctively knew they should be afraid of the dark and the monsters it held. The tension was palpable, and the air was suddenly redolent with the tantalizing scent of their fear.

It took a herculean force of will not to shift at the sound of their chairs pushing back from the table in a rush. Under the guise of inspecting the selection of coffee and tea, I listened to them gathering up the remnants of their lunch, their frantic steps torture on my frayed self-control. The wolf wanted to chase them down, sink her teeth into the softness of their flesh. Holding my breath I ignored the intoxicating scent of their panic, ignored the way it called seductively to the wolf, luring her ever closer to the surface.

It wasn’t until their steps had faded away down the hall that I let my breath out slowly between clenched teeth. Flexing my fingers at my sides I hissed at the burning sensation of the air hitting the fresh crescents my nails had gouged into my palms. Stumbling to the nearby sink I turned on the cold water and splashed it over my face, sloshing just as much down the front of my sweater in a display of my typical grace.

After the attack, it had taken a long time, and a lot of close calls, to get a handle on the wolf and her mercurial temper. Most of the time I was able to keep her in check, especially if I made sure to take regular runs through the woods, sating her need for the hunt. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I had lost control. I was shaken at having come so horrifyingly close to losing it in a public place. Somehow I didn’t think a building full of FBI agents would hesitate to put me down. After all, it is illegal to shift in public. Living alone in the wilderness has its distinct advantages.

The coffee sitting on the burner was bitter smelling and looked as thick as tar, but it was caffeine and it was hot. I ignored the tremor in my hands as I filled a cup, added three packets of sugar and at heaping dose of powdered creamer. Taking a tentative sip I almost spit it back out. Dumping more sugar and creamer into my cup I flipped open the bakery box on the counter to find a couple dried donuts sitting amongst a sea of crumbs.

My stomach rumbled at the sight of the stale donuts. After all, a stale donut is still a donut, and donuts are delicious little fried gifts from heaven. Besides, even I knew that bitter coffee on an empty stomach wasn’t the best idea. Before guilt overrode me, I shoved a crusty, glazed donut into my mouth, the dry dough turning to glue the moment it hit my tongue.

Good job, genius
, I thought, grimacing as I swallowed the dry lump of fried dough, washing it down with a mouthful of burnt coffee.

Ten thousand dollars for a toilet seat and they can’t afford decent coffee?

Looking around the room to make sure there were no witnesses, I snagged the last donut before darting back to Holbrook’s office. It wasn’t the healthiest meal I’d ever had, but then again, I’d eaten whole rabbits, still warm and twitching, so who was I to complain?

Sitting in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair in front of Holbrook’s desk I nibbled the second donut, occasionally pausing to brush the cascade of crumbs from my sweater, amassing a small mountain of them at my feet. I might have a
slight
weakness for junk food.

Finishing my donut and licking every last trace of sugary glaze from my fingers, I sat back in the chair, sipping my coffee and drumming the fingers of my free hand on the arm of the chair. My blood was thrumming with a mixture of restless energy and a mounting sugar high. Although my profession as a freelance graphic artist requires me to spend a lot of time sitting around on my ass, I’ve never been one to just sit around with nothing to do. This restlessness got worse after I the attack, the wolf’s near constant need to run and be free, working to compound my already fidgety nature.

Glancing around the room again, I spied a series of glossy photographs peeking out of an innocuous looking manila folder sitting on top of the box on Holbrook’s desk, the image of a single lonely boot lying on snow covered gravel calling out to me. I knew I shouldn’t be snooping, but boredom made for idle hands, at least that’s what my grandmother had always said.

Leaning back in my chair I looked out into the hallway to make sure that no one was passing by, and then, giving in to curiosity, plucked the top most picture out of the folder. Horror bloomed in my chest, stealing my breath away, as my eyes danced over the photograph in my hand. It looked like someone had splashed a bucket of paint along the side of a pickup truck, red streaking down the pitted metal like a gruesome modern painting.

It took a moment for me to make sense of the swaths of red smeared across the truck, the direction of them looking purposeful. “For you Riley.” Nausea roiled in my gut, the words swimming in my vision.

“Oh, God,” I whispered, my free hand hovering in front of my mouth. I didn’t realize I was crying until the first salty tear splashed down on the glossy paper. The photograph fluttered down to the worn carpet at my feet as I reached for the trash can beside Holbrook’s desk, the acidic break room coffee burning a bitter path up my throat.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” Holbrook said behind me.

“I wish I hadn’t,” I said, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, wrinkling my nose at the smell of vomit.

I heard the faint scuff of his feet on the carpet a moment before a square of white fabric appeared at the edge of my vision. Wordlessly I accepted the handkerchief from him and wiped my mouth, my fingers brushing against the raised stitches of some kind of embroidery. Glancing down at the crumpled fabric in my hand I could just make out the minute stitches that spelled out a set of initials. D.J.H.

Who even uses a handkerchief anymore?

Folding the handkerchief in half, and then in half again, I ignored the warmth in my eyes as fresh tears rose to the surface. Sniffling, I offered the handkerchief back to him with a shaking hand. His fingers were warm, and buzzing with energy, squeezing my fingers around the damp square of cotton.

Holbrook’s voice was full of sympathy when he broke the silence. “Come on. The boss man wants to see you.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

DIVISION CHIEF JAVIER Santos was shorter than Holbrook, wider through the hips and shoulders, but his presence gave the impression of a much larger man. There was something in the stubborn set of his chin and the flinty quality of his dark eyes that commanded attention and respect. He was a natural alpha male, the wolf could tell, yet he didn’t appear to demand the admiration of his men. Holbrook seemed to regard him with respect that had been earned. He was instantly likeable, and yet I couldn’t help my hesitancy. I resented him for seeing me pale with nausea, eyes red rimmed and gritty.

After so many years alone, with only my cat and computer for company, I was not accustomed to being vulnerable around others. Samson’s attack and the following trial had torn my life wide open, stripping away any semblance of privacy I’d thought I had, leaving me bare and exposed for all the world to see. Thanks to Chrismer and her ilk, the world had gotten an eye-full of my pain and suffering. Since then I had closed myself off from the public eye, preferring the company of books and internet “friends” to interaction with my fellow flesh and blood brethren.

There was something implacably mysterious about Holbrook that cut through the barriers I had erected around myself, but Santos was an unknown. It was obvious that Holbrook trusted him, but it was going to take me a while to formulate an official opinion of the man.

His office was larger than Holbrook’s but not ostentatious by any means. Dark woods dominated the space, and would have made the room tomb-like if not for the sunshine streaming in through several large windows. The room possessed a homey warmth that was reflected in several framed family photos around the room. From the looks of it, Santos was a very young grandfather, but as I stepped further into his office I caught the gleam of several grey strands peeking through his dark hair.

Not so young after all.

Unlike Holbrook, Santos appeared to work in a more fluid state like I did, the surface of the desk covered in scribbled notes, folders marred with coffee stains, and half a dozen pens with the ends chewed. Sticky notes fanned out around the edges of twin monitors, and not for the first time I felt a pang of longing for my cozy home, where I didn’t have to worry about psychotic killers or racist FBI agents.

Leaning across the desk, Santos extended a hand towards me, and I couldn’t hide the flicker of my surprise when I noticed that he was missing the last two fingers of his right hand. The skin stretched over the ends of the stubby remnants of his ring and pinky fingers was smooth and shiny marking them as old injuries. I wondered if he’d acquired the injury before or after joining the FBI, and then if Holbrook had any scars I hadn’t yet noticed. Admittedly, I’d been rather distracted by
other
parts of his anatomy every time I’d seen him naked, so it was entirely possible that his body was a veritable roadmap of old injuries.

“Ms. Cray, I’m sorry we’ve had to meet under such distasteful circumstances,” Santos said, his voice bearing the faintest hint of his Hispanic heritage. The earnestness in his expression lent credence to his sincerity, and I warmed to him a little despite his decision to refer to the current cluster fuck as merely “distasteful.”

Not trusting my voice, I nodded in response as I accepted his hand in a firm handshake. I was glad that he didn’t feel the need to try and crush my fingers in a show of masculinity, his hand warm and solid in mine. The absence of his fingers made his hand awkward in my own, but I tried not to let the unease show on my face.

“Has Agent Holbrook been keeping you up-to-date on the latest developments in the case?” he asked, releasing his grip and gesturing for me to take one of the open seats in front of the desk.

“He has,” I replied, my hackles rising even though the rational side of me knew he was simply asking a question. I remained standing, my blood buzzing with restlessness, as I braced myself for whatever accusations were forthcoming.

“It’s alright, Riley. No one is holding you responsible for what’s happening,” Holbrook said, appearing to sense the darkness of my thoughts.

Moving forward into the empty space beside me as if to lend me his strength, he brushed a hand over my shoulder, sending sparks of energy skipping along the back of my arm. My fingers tingled with the traces of his unique energy where I flexed them on the back of the chair in front of me. Letting out a shaking breath I closed my eyes for a moment, pushing back the wave of emotion that threatened to drown me.