Shift Work (Carus #4) (8 page)

The other officer behind me sighed and holstered his firearm. Then, and only then, I turned to him. The Asian man tensed at my approach, but copied the other officer’s lead and held out his hand. His name tag read, “Chong.”

I nuzzled his hand, too, before walking forward and arching my back. Bless the man, he scratched me. Maybe acting like a house cat wasn’t so bad after all.

“Cindy will never believe this,” he said to the other cop, the one with the kind eyes. Must be referring to his wife.

Both cops grinned and stood in front of me. I sat and waited.

“Can you understand us?” Kind Eyes asked.

I slowly nodded my head up and down.

“Good,” Officer Chong said. “Follow us. We’ll take you in and make sure no one else draws on you.”

A man after my own heart.

With minimal yelling, a few tense moments, and one twitchy police officer, we wound our way through Stan’s house to the master bedroom. The whole place was a bouquet of sweet memories. Raw emotions had a way of embedding in the walls like cigarette smoke. Stan’s house smelled of love and laughter. Mountain lions couldn’t cry, but my eyes stung as I padded through layers and layers of fresh cut grass, which indicated happiness. When the air turned sour, I knew we approached the location where Loretta died. The smell of Stan’s apprehension rose thick, like a wall of smog, and then, once I stepped across the bedroom threshold, the power of the scents bombarded my nose and made me stagger.

I hadn’t smelled the lightning strike of heartbreak since I broke it off with Wick. This was stronger. Along with tears and anger, the canned ham odour floating in waves marked despair. Underneath it all was blood and death. Stan’s wife had a distinct aroma; like Stan, she smelled of soap and leather, but with a more feminine edge, as if the soap contained roses instead of an Irish spring. I’d become acquainted with it as we moved through the house.

Now at the location where she’d lost her life, the smell of her body and blood, though removed hours ago, intensified, but with a sour twist. Other scents swirled around the room. The hot metal of pain, the fierce lemon and pepper bouquet of shock, a little smoke for confusion and a lot of rust and cobwebs for regret. She’d seen her death coming, and her sadness painted the room with its aroma.

But the sour twist to her body odour and the guilt smelled wrong. Misplaced. Death never came across like a handful of daisies, but this was different. The sourness clawed at my skin. When I nosed around some more, I realized it came from the broken vial near the body outline, and blood-spattered carpet. I sniffed it again. Sour, burnt plastic, kind of like oven cleaner. This must be King’s Krank.

One mystery solved.

If only the crime scene could solve who committed the murder. The room packed an olfactory punch, but the absence of the killer’s scent rankled. Not the first time a Witch anti-scent charm had been used to aid an offense. The faint sweetness of the charm almost got lost, laden under all the other smells. Whomever killed Loretta wanted his or her tracks covered. The murderer’s identity would have to wait.

Only one mystery remained at the scene to sleuth out.

I padded around the room, delicately avoiding the taped outline where her body had lain, where only a patch of dried blood remained, and sniffed her side of the bed. Guilt? Why would Stan’s wife smell guilty? Her house reeked of happiness, love and Stan, no other man. She hadn’t cheated, or at least not here and not in a way that she’d carry the other man’s stench back.

Did I mess up?

Weres and Shifters tended not to outright lie about anything. We’d all smell it. Being upfront and taking an “as is” mentality tended to be a trait for both supernatural groups. It also meant I didn’t often smell guilt.

I sniffed again. Parmesan cheese and musk oil, definitely guilt.

Now the question remained: what did Loretta Stevens hide from her husband that she felt guilty about?

Chapter Nine

“Give me my sin again.”

~William Shakespeare

The big wooden double doors of Tristan’s house stared back at me. The scent of citrus and sunshine curled around my body, and the warmth of the day slipped away as I stood and waited for someone to answer the door.

Feradea, please don’t let it be Angie.

After the day I’d had, I just wanted to curl up on Tristan’s lap for a cuddle. My usual daily quota for sass and snark, aside from my own, was tapped out.

Nelson opened the door, and his eyes widened. “Andy!”

“Hey big guy, can I come in? Tristan’s expecting me.”

The Wereleopard bobbed his head and stepped back to allow me entry.

I wanted to bottle this home and the smells wafting down the hallway.

“Andy.” Tristan walked into the foyer with his arms wide. I walked straight into them and wrapped myself around his hard torso. His arms enclosed me, and I inhaled his citrus and sunshine. The bouquet of honeysuckles coiled around me.

My mountain lion stopped pacing, and the world slowed down for the first time today.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tristan mumbled into my hair.

I shook my head.

“Let me put you to bed then.”

My heart rate increased, and my mountain lion purred.

“For sleep, you wicked thing. You look positively exhausted.” He nuzzled my neck and gave it a little nip. “But if you’re a good girl, I could arrange a midnight wake-up.”

“Mmmhmm.”

Before I had a chance to make him promise, a snort echoed down the hall. I looked up to see emotions cross Angie’s face, too quick to decipher, but there was no mistaking the disgusted curl of her upper lip or the jealous scent of cat urine floating in the air.

I turned back to Tristan and mumbled into his lips. “I think I just got my second wind.” I squeezed his rock-solid ass to emphasize my point.

Tristan’s chest rumbled. “Staking your claim?”

“Maybe.”

“Unnecessary, but I approve.”

He grabbed my hand and hauled me through his beautiful home. The smells of his pride brushed passed me, like a flicker-tape movie; emotions, identities and hierarchies packed an olfactory punch. Two things stood out to me as Tristan guided me up the stairs with no seduction, and all urgency.

One, absolute loyalty. Tristan’s pride loved and trusted him unconditionally. And two, Angie’s particular brand of stench was everywhere. Embedded with lust and jealousy. Tristan’s constant scent remained ambivalent throughout the house, so although Angie’s desire for Tristan concerned me and meant I’d have to watch my back, at least I didn’t have to worry about Tristan returning her feelings.

My mouth opened as I planned to question Tristan, but he flung me into a large master bedroom and slammed the door closed. I had little time to take in the room. A king-sized bed with reclaimed wood stained a natural blue-gray as a headboard, and a white duvet stuffed with a fluffy comforter.

“Tristan—”

His mouth on mine gave me little chance to breathe, let alone talk. He moved forward until the backs of my legs hit the elevated bed. With a glint in his gaze, he pulled back and gave me a little shove. I fell back and bounced on the pillow-top mattress a bit before coming to rest on the soft duvet and goose down comforter. Typical cat surrounding himself with bird feathers. My mountain lion purred her approval. Tristan’s scent coated the entire room with his own unique spin to the leopard signature, the hint of honeysuckles on a warm day.

Plus, no Angie stench.

Something else familiar clung to the sheets, though. My eyebrows scrunched up, and I reach behind me to search under the pillows. I pulled out some clothing and brought it to my nose. My tank-top. He’d sniped my top so his bed would smell of me. I continued to hold my shirt to my face, and met Tristan’s piercing gaze over the supple white material.

“It keeps my leopard calm,” he said.

My mountain lion purred and preened as I re-tucked the clothing under his pillows.

Tristan remained at the foot of the bed, studying me. The familiarity of the moment triggered memories from our night together. Images flooded my mind of our naked bodies in a sweaty tangle of limbs.

Tristan’s gaze twinkled as if following my mind down its dirty path. His black hair slightly mussed, contrasted sharply with his almost glowing porcelain skin. When I’d first met him, I mentally described him as angelic and had to wipe the drool off my face. Now, I knew he wasn’t an angel, but the beauty of his contrasting features still struck me silly and sent heat to pool in my leopard-print panties.

Something soft replaced Tristan’s wicked look.

“Speechless?” I asked.

He hesitated before saying, “I’d ‘as soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.’”

I recognized the words of William Shakespeare, but the meaning of what Tristan said saw the return of the indescribable warmth, the one that came whenever I thought of Tristan, the one making my brain go fuzzy, quelling all my concerns and worries. I cleared my throat. “You’re a poet, now?”

“No. But seeing you splayed on my bed, as I have so many times in
my
dreams, may be the inspirational spark I need to become one.”

I groaned.

He smiled.

“Come here, then.” I crooked a finger at him. “And ‘give me my sin again.’”

“That’s my line.” Tristan pulled his shirt off and crawled on top of me. His weight sank me into the mattress, cocooning me in his scent and soft bedding. His mouth moved wickedly over my body as fire licked my skin and fed the rising need within.

Want,
my mountain lion crooned.
Want mate.

Soon,
I told her.
Soon.

Her swirling energy nudging for the bond, abated, receding until it became imperceptible. Tristan removed my clothes with slow finesse. His gaze glinting when he discovered my underwear choice.

Staking my claim had never felt so good.

****

I bolted upright in bed. Tristan’s muscled arm weighed heavy across my abdomen, and the slow steadiness of his breathing calmed my fast racing heart. Why the hell had I woken? Must’ve been another bad—

Come to me, Carus
. A smooth voice slithered into my heart and cooled the fast pumping blood in my veins.

Come to me.

Another fera? Really? I’d taken two new animal familiars in the last year already. Three at fourteen and nothing for almost sixty-six years. Now they bombarded me. What the hell was going on?

My eightieth birthday approached soon. Did that have some sort of significance to Shifters or the Carus specifically? I’d spoken about my abilities to an old coyote Shifter handler at the SRD many times. Donny never mentioned anything. Not even an ominous warning, or vague threat of imminent danger, and he loved giving those.

Come to me, Carus,
the unknown fera called out again. My blood thrummed with the sound, pulsating, nudging me to fling back the sheets and go to this new animal.

No
, I answered back, not knowing for sure whether she could hear me.
I’m tired.

A half-truth. I didn’t know if I had it in me to accept and dispel another fera so close to my latest heartache. I’d cast out my wolf to numb the pain of losing Wick. Could I accept another fera, one cold and strange, to take her place? Even if it was temporary before dispelling?

A tear escaped and trickled down my face.

No
, I repeated, not caring if anyone heard.
I’m too tired, and I’m not ready for you.

Soon
, she hissed, repeating the very word I’d told my mountain lion about mating earlier tonight.

The unknown fera continued to hiss the word like a skipping record from the past until her voice slowly faded into silence. Or maybe I drifted back to sleep. Either way, she left me alone, and slumber enveloped my tired body once again.

Chapter Ten

“If A equals success, then the formula is A equals X plus Y and Z, with X being work, Y being play and Z keeping your mouth shut.”

~Albert Einstein

The heavy bass vibrated the air and rocked my heart. After all these years of scoping out and preying on targets in establishments like this one, I’d learned my lesson and used earplugs. It still did little to dull the overwhelming effect of music cranked too high and drunk people yelling.

“Thank you for coming with me.” Stan leaned in.

It had only been a week since Loretta’s murder. I’d attended her grim funeral two days ago, and watched my friend publicly sob over her open grave. Stan shouldn’t be here, dressed like a civilian and trying to play undercover cop. Despite my strongly worded attempts for him to stay out of the investigation, he’d insisted and pulled the “I’ll do it with or without you” line.

Well, damn. That had lit a torch under my ass. Stan needed me by his side. One, he should be mourning; two, he sucked at discreet. He’d never gone undercover in his career. His shoulders back with rigid spine posture screamed career cop and for a man his age in a downtown Vancouver club, he was entirely too clean. The only men above forty frequenting these kinds of places, chock full of drunk under-aged girls looking to make bad decisions, resembled slimy reptiles more than decent human beings.

Stan didn’t fit in.

If people didn’t peg him for a cop, they’d peg him for a dad out looking for his wayward daughter.

I couldn’t talk him out of it though, so I found myself leather-clad and by his side on my Saturday night. No way would I let Stan do this alone.

The smell of sweat and booze clung to my nose.

“Why don’t you wait here?” I said. “Work the front of the club. I’ll go to the back and see what I can find out.”

Stan nodded and ran his finger along the neckline of his shirt to loosen it. His gaze shifted around, and his muscles tensed.

“Just sit at the bar and order something hard to drink,” I said.

He nodded and made a robot turn for the bar.

“And Stan?” I called out.

“Yeah?”

“Uh…try to look more…er…less like you.” I reached out, yanked his shirt out of his pants and ruffled his hair. Before he had a chance to reprimand me, I swiveled and sauntered to the back of the club.