Hunted (Riley Cray) Read online

  I watched as Johnson’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing to beady pinpoints. I had the sudden impression of an irritated pig, but figured I should probably keep that particular insight to myself.

  And people say I don’t have any restraint. Bah!

  “You think you’re so clever don’t you? You’re nothing but a stuck up smartass.”

  “Hey, I’d rather be a smartass than a dumbass,” I shot back with a shrug.

  While Johnson glared daggers at me one of the other SUV’s from the convoy pulled into the space beside us. I recognized both of the agents that exited the vehicle from the cluster fuck that had been the media frenzy at the motel, but didn’t know either of their names.

  The younger of the two agents didn’t look old enough to drive, let alone handle a weapon. He was tall and rail thin as if someone had grabbed him by the ankles and pulled, stretching him out like an old rubber band. Close cropped, baby fine brown hair fluttered in the breeze, causing him to run a hand over it in what looked like a gesture of habit in an attempt to flatten it down. A pair of thin framed glasses completed the look, and I couldn’t help imagining him hanging out in someone’s basement with a bag of dice and a prized miniature figure playing Dungeons & Dragons. But for all his seeming gawkiness he moved with a sense of surety, his bright blue eyes alive with intelligence and awareness.

  The other agent was as short as the first was tall, and was the first woman I had seen in a law enforcement capacity since Johnson and Holbrook had appeared on my doorstep. The tight ponytail that pulled her ash blonde hair back from her face made her look severe, but the faint lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes hinted at a tendency to laugh rather than frown.

  “Come on guys, just settle down,” Holbrook said in a tone akin to a frustrated parent dealing with two rowdy children. It was kind of him to try to ease the tense silence stretching out between Johnson and I, but it was also utterly naïve and futile. There was no kissing and making up happening here.

  “Don’t defend him. It’s not your fault he’s such a gigantic fuck sock,” I said, my voice carrying surprisingly well in the parking garage.

  Beside us, the two agents smothered their chuckles behind coughs and mutterings of “Looks like it’s going to snow again.” Meanwhile Johnson’s face was beginning to darken from red to maroon.

  “I mean, you can’t be blamed for the fact that he seems to have had his sense of humor removed through his ass along with his brain.”

  “What did you say?” Johnson demanded in a low snarl, turning the alarming shade of purple I was starting to classify as DEFCON 3.

  “You heard me. You’re being an ass clown,” I offered off-handedly, turning my back on him to grab Loki’s carrier from the backseat. A few paces away the other agents were continuing to try not to laugh, and failing miserably. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought Johnson was a world-class asshole. Turning back to face him I added, “A douche nozzle. A twat waffle.”

  And there it is ladies and gentlemen. We have achieved DEFCON 2, I thought, watching his eyes bulge in his blotchy face, his mouth flapping open and closed like a fish on a hook.

  For a slightly heavyset man, Johnson moved surprisingly fast. In the blink of an eye he was looming in front of me, his white knuckled fists pressed to the doorframe on either side of my head. I recoiled as his ashtray breath swirled in my face, Loki’s crate clattering to the concrete at my feet, drawing a piercing yowl from my furry friend.

  “Listen to me, you dumb wolf bitch. I’m the only thing standing between you that fucking lunatic. Keep pushing me and I’ll hog tie you and hand you over to Reed with a big God damned red bow stapled to your forehead,” Johnson hissed, spittle flying from his lips to splatter across my face.

  Oh, that’s just gross.

  Daring to take my eyes off Johnson for a fraction of a second, I saw the alarmed expressions of the other agents over his shoulder, their hands already reaching for their weapons.

  “Take a step back Agent Johnson, nice and slow,” the younger agent said. His voice had a tight, worried edge to it, but the way he held his gun pointed at the ground in an unwavering grip, ready to raise it at a moment’s notice, let me know he was all business.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I chanted internally, the wolf joining me in my panicked mantra. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him that last little bit, I thought, but then again, I’d always been the type to poke a bear with a stick. Sometimes I just couldn’t help myself, I had to see what would happen if I jabbed it in the ass.

  When my gaze shifted back to Johnson I barely recognized him, the murderous rage, gleaming manic and fever bright in his eyes, made me suck in a sharp breath.

  “You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? That you’re something special just because you didn’t have the good sense to die when that maniac split you open like a melon. Or is it because every cock within a hundred miles is drooling at the chance to get in your quim?” The savagery of his words made me flinch.

  Whoa. What the hell?

  “Step away, Agent Johnson. I won’t tell you again,” the agent said, the sound of his shoe scuffing on the concrete drawing my gaze away from Johnson’s raging face for a second.

  The sight of the gathered agents with their guns raised, sighted on Johnson’s back, made my heart hammer painfully against my ribs. This was so not how I had pictured being taken out.

  “Come on, Harry,” Holbrook pleaded, though the aim of his gun didn’t waver for a second. “Don’t do this. Think of Cheryl.”

  Something dark and vicious flickered across Johnson’s face, like a leviathan rising up from the depths for the briefest of moments, before sinking back down into the darkness. Barely glimpsed, but terrifying all the same. And then Johnson spun away from me, rounding on the other agent, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breaths.

  “Fuck you, Darius,” he said, jabbing a thick finger at his partner, before stalking past the other agents, completely ignoring their drawn weapons as if they held no more threat than a water pistol.

  The agents slowly lowered their weapons as they watched Johnson stalk down the ramp of the parking garage, digging a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. Coming to a halt at the end of the ramp he leaned against the wall of the garage and pulled a lighter from his pocket. The snick of the lighter echoed in the otherwise silent structure, and even at that great of a distance I could smell the smoke as he exhaled in a long breath through his nose, the twin trails looking like the exhalation of a slumbering dragon. He certainly appeared to have the temper of one.

  “Should we go after him?” the female agent asked, holstering her gun, but keeping her hand close by.

  “No, leave him be,” Holbrook answered, his brow furrowing as his gaze lingered on his partner.

  Leaning back against the side of the SUV, I hung my head, bracing my hands on my knees as I breathed deep. “So that’s DEFCON 1.”

  Holbrook shot me a quizzical look, but I just waved him off as I struggled to figure out what the hell had just happened.

  Like anyone else, I’d learned the basics of human and supernatural history. I’d learned, how once upon a time all the various races had existed in one unified world, how we’d lived in tandem for millennia until some cataclysmic event, that no one seemed to remember, had torn the world into five separate, parallel realms. It was said that passage from one realm to another was still possible, but only through doorways where the barriers were weakest, doorways that were often secret, and always heavily guarded.

  Or at least, that’s what some people liked to believe.

  Others believed that we’d been created by an omnipresent God, designed in his image to inhabit the world he had made. That’s what my grandparents had believed, and the faith that most mundanes ascribed to in one way or another. As for me, I didn’t really believe in much of anything that I couldn’t see with my own eyes. I’d believe in a god made of spaghetti and meatballs if he dropped down from the sky to say hello a
nd wave his nooddley appendage at me.

  Along with the various origin stories earth’s assorted races placed their faith in, I’d also learned about the evolution of rights and laws pertaining to supes. While Martin Luther King, Jr. was marching on Washington in the 1950’s, Olaf Sorenson, the pack master of Milwaukee was demanding equal rights for all Americans, be they human, were, vampire, or anything else. King’s campaign of equality for African Americans had proven more successful than Sorenson’s ever did.

  Supes were barred from serving in the military, law enforcement, and any branch of government, whether it was Federal or State. Magic users are considered somewhat of a grey area – technically they’re still human, the genetic testing proves that, but whatever it is that enables them to wield magic in any of its myriad forms makes the mundanes nervous. While they’re given all the same rights as any other human, those that choose to join the military or law enforcement often suffer such prejudice and ridicule that they either resign or elect to conceal their true nature. There’s a whole lot of “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” going on these days.

  We’ve made some progress since Sorenson’s time, but there’s still a lot of fear and prejudice dictating the laws. I’d never given much thought to the unequal balance of rights between humans and supes until I’d been torn from one group, and thrust headlong into the other. As a supe there are a lot of limitations in place that just don’t exist for mundanes. Overstep those bounds and you’ll find yourself on a one-way trip to the afterlife, no take backs.

  Living in the country meant my interactions with others were pretty damn limited. It had been a long time since I’d run across someone who was so obviously prejudiced against supes. Johnson’s outburst had reminded me all too sharply of the fact that I was no longer a member of the human race. I was one of the others; one of the creatures in the dark to be maligned, restricted, and feared.

  “You coming?” Holbrook asked, drawing my gaze away from Johnson’s distant figure.

  Straightening, I picked up Loki’s carrier, glad that no one mentioned the obvious tremor in my hand. “Sure.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FILING INTO THE ELEVATOR with Holbrook and the other agents from the convoy, we stood in uncomfortable silence, avoiding making eye contact with our own reflections in the mirrored interior. Although Johnson wasn’t with us, the effects of his tirade lingered like a corporeal being in the confined space, making us all a bit jittery.

  “So...” I drawled, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. “How ‘bout them Broncos?”

  “You watch football?” Holbrook asked with a surprised tilt to his brows.

  “No, but I figured it was better than asking if you’d had your prostate checked recently,” I replied with a shrug, and grinned at the uncomfortable look on his face.

  Behind me the female agent let out a chuckle, breaking the tense atmosphere. In the mirrored surface of the elevator, I could see everyone’s shoulders visibly relax as they let some of the tension go. Amazing what a little ass humor can do to a crowd.

  “Tillman, you ever muster up the courage to ask out Jenna in accounting?” Holbrook asked to change the subject, grinning as the young agent blushed crimson and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Beside him, his partner laughed, shaking her head.

  “Shut up, Myrom,” Tillman said, staring at the toes of his shoes while his blush crept up the sides of his neck. He looked like a mortified teenager who’d just been pantsed in the middle of gym class.

  “Ignore them,” I said, taking pity on the poor kid. Leaning in conspiratorially I added in a stage whisper, “They’re just a couple of asshats.” Although he didn’t raise his head, he did lift his gaze to meet mine, gracing me with a faint smile.

  “Holbrook’s just intimidated by my giant...gun,” Tillman said after a few moments of silence, puffing out his chest and waggling his eyebrows suggestively for emphasis.

  Laughter erupted from all of us, the last of our collective anxiety dissipating like smoke. We were all wiping tears of laughter from our eyes and shaking our heads when the elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal a large open room filled with cubicles and agents walking to and fro like busy little bees. Tillman and Myrom got out ahead of me, the younger agent flashing me a smile before ducking his head and jogging after his partner.

  Holbrook’s hand on my arm kept me from exiting the elevator. Turning to face him, I arched my brows in an unspoken question.

  “Thanks for that,” he said, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry down the hallway towards the retreating agents.

  “For what?”

  “Tillman. He’s a good kid, a good agent, but he’s quiet and shy. You brought him out of his shell. You did a good thing there.”

  “It was nothing,” I said with a shrug, though I smiled at the warm flutter in the pit of my stomach.

  With all the crazy crap going on around me it had felt good – really good – to make someone smile, no matter how silly or inconsequential it may have seemed to anyone else. I knew all too well what it was like to be the awkward one in the room, and if cracking a few ass jokes could help lighten the mood and give a shy guy a little pep, well then, watch out folks because I’ve got a butt load more jokes where that one came from. Get it? Butt load. Yeah, I crack myself up too.

  Holbrook led the way out of the elevator, weaving through the sea of cubicles until reaching one at the end of a row. A small shiny nameplate tacked to the outside of the cubicle bore the name J. Lloyd. It looked like a bomb of paperwork had gone off in there, every available surface, including large portions of the floor, covered in stacks of file folders, loose papers, hand written notes, and Post-Its. The cubicle’s occupant was a middle aged man with sandy blonde hair, blinking blue eyes and a ketchup stain on the front of his shirt.

  “Hey Lloyd, do you have those case files I asked you to track down?” Holbrook asked.

  “Sure, it’s around here somewhere,” he answered, sucking his bottom lip as he pushed his chair back from the desk and looked over the mountain of paperwork. “Now where did I put that box?” he muttered, shuffling random stacks of paper back and forth across the small space.

  “Is that it?” I asked, spotting a bankers box in the only relatively clutter free corner of the cubicle.

  “Ah ha!” Lloyd crowed in triumph, zeroing in on the box I had pointed out. “Well done!”

  As Lloyd scooted his chair across the floor to retrieve the box I gave Holbrook a significant look, receiving a minute shrug in return.

  “Should be everything you asked for,” Lloyd beamed, turning pale, watery eyes on us.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Holbrook said, accepting the box. “Say hi to Tanya and the kids for me.”

  Falling into step behind Holbrook, I followed him back through the maze of cubicles towards the elevators and then down a hallway leading off to the left.

  “Here we are,” Holbrook said, pausing outside a darkened office, the small nameplate next to the door reading ‘Special Agent D. Holbrook.’

  Juggling the banker’s box and his backpack he pushed open the door with his hip and flipped the light switch with his elbow, bathing the room in fluorescent light. The room was small and windowless, and smelled of spilled coffee and him. A plywood desk circa 1980 lurked in the center of the room, an equally ancient monitor sitting on top along with a desk calendar filled in with several notes written in a sharp, precise hand.

  Either he’s a technophobe, or he really pissed someone off, I thought, eyeing the monitor that had to be as old as I was.

  The rest of his desk was devoid of clutter, not even a single pen out of place. It was the complete opposite of my work space at home which was covered in dozens of scribbled sticky notes, sketches, doodles and various scraps of paper. Briefly, I wondered if I’d ever see my cluttered desk, or get to sleep in my own bed, again.

  Setting the box down on the edge of the desk, Holbrook dropped his backpack in the corner of the r
oom and draped his jacket over his chair. Turning to face me, he took Loki’s carrier from my clasped hands and set it down gently beside the desk. Loki let out a single meow before turning around inside the crate and burying his nose beneath his tail, almost instantly falling asleep again. At least he didn’t seem too put out by all the shuffling around we’d been doing over the last couple of days.

  Turning back to the box on his desk, Holbrook set the lid aside and began flipping through the folders.

  “There’s a break room down the hall on the left. There should be some coffee, tea and maybe even some donuts if they haven’t all been scavenged yet,” he said, setting several files aside on the desk until he found the one he wanted. “I need to go check-in with my boss, but I shouldn’t be gone long,” he said, pausing long enough to notice that I was still standing in the doorway, my hands clenched at my sides. Moving to stand in front of me, he tucked the folder under his arm to lay both hands on my shoulders, the now familiar electricity arcing between his fingers to send tremors of sensation through my skin. “You’re safe here, Riley. I promise.”

  Unable to say anything for fear that my emotions would overcome me, I just nodded and stepped aside to let him pass. I hadn’t realized just how much my little spat with Johnson had unsettled me until Holbrook’s behavior tugged at my heart strings. If the guys protecting me would just as soon see me dead in a ditch somewhere, what hope did I have of surviving Samson a second time?

  And since when did I become such an emotional wreck?

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said before turning to stride down the hall, his long and measured steps carrying him away. I watched his retreating back with a growing sense of unease, feeling as though he were taking a small piece of my safety away with him.

  Huffing out a tense breath I wrapped my arms around my middle and turned to regard his office. The wall behind his desk was filled with filing cabinets and bookshelves that stretched up to the dingy ceiling tiles. The shelves held several volume sets, a cursory glance showing that most of them were about supernatural law and governmental regulations. A few personal items were tucked in amongst the volumes, and I found my feet carrying me across the room to investigate before the thought even crossed my mind.