clients.
My fingers wrap the little knobs. I'm a
flick away from closure.
My gaze sweeps the narrow slivers of the
outside I can see.
The bluest eyes I've ever seen blink back at
me from paces away.
I scream, falling backward over the couch
and hitting my head on the coffee table.
Stars burst in front of my vision and I
groan.
I roll over on all fours.
Somebody's out there, Talyn! Get your ass moving!
I shake my head to clear it. I lurch and
clutch the material of the couch, heaving myself to my knees. My
heart feels like it's trying for escape but I'm not some sissy.
Except for the scream.
I lean my torso against the back of the
couch, and peer out of the still half-open slats.
A semi-underground flight of concrete stairs
leads up to a busy metropolitan sidewalk where walking legs greet
me. Pant legs, bare legs and many different kind of legs flow
past.
There are no eyes.
I want to lie to myself. Shake it off as
though I was just seeing things.
But I'm not like that. In reality, I'm a
scientist. I study the brain. I study people.
I like it— self-delusion
isn't my game.
I yank the blinds shut, releasing the cord
with a flip. The plastic knobs at the end of the cord slap against
the dark walnut-colored faux wood slats.
The knot on my head begins to throb in time
with my dumb teeth.
Shit .
I slide out my new pulse, and place my thumb
on the dock pad. It's the approximate size of the old credit cards
before everything allowed a thumb swipe as payment.
Green characters swirl on the dark screen as
though moving to the surface of inky water.
The time glows softly. 7:40 PM.
“ Shit,” I repeat softly and
with feeling. Can't I just ever get out of here on
time?
Clearly not.
I grab my gear bag and move through the
office door, locking it behind me.
I swing my keys (eschewing the locksmith his
five hundred credits for revamping my security bolt to pulse) and
dump them in my handbag.
I trot up the concrete stairs, vaguely
thinking it's time for a power wash. Slimy mildew is getting a
foothold.
I reach the top, grabbing a lungful of fresh
midwestern air. Heat, farm and the vague smells of prairie without
the blood vats of the nearby meat plant assail me in the comfort of
having always lived here in Sioux Falls. My comfort scent combo
lasts for the blink of an eye.
My ears perk.
Not for noise, but for the quiet. The
throbbing of my teeth and head—the funky squawk of my joints—recede
as I scan my surroundings.
I don't admit I'm searching for blue
eyes.
The small hairs at my nape lift.
I see nothing, but remain disquieted.
Finally, I walk out into a day that is fast losing its claim to
night.
My footsteps take me the mile to the gym. My
thoughts stay in the office and with the revelations Bea
shared.
Blue eyes haunt me.
3
Merck
I watch the change, enjoying her wariness as
her soft gray eyes pierce the shadows, searching out my presence.
Her slightly reflective irises don't make me out in the gloom.
She's old for a hybrid. It's a mystery to me
why a rare female would change so late.
My nostrils flare.
I smell a small wound and a recent injury.
An involuntary low growl seeps from between the tight line of my
lips.
Did someone cause the injury?
No , I immediately
soothe my beast. Probably that tumble she took over the
couch.
I chuckle. Wasn't sure if I'd have to wade
in there, and save her from herself before it was too late. I had
been a little sloppy with my presence. But Talyn Phisher is very
practical. She's probably already talked herself right out of very
good instincts.
Talyn walks off, and I take a second to lust
after her.
The practice of coveting the changes is
strictly forbidden, of course.
Our job's now doubly hard. Vamps and Turners
have been outed, and now they're cruising the same hunting grounds
we do.
The Lanarre, as the Lycan royalty is named,
doesn't want a vulnerable hybrid Lycan running into a vamp that
likes their tasty werewolf blood.
Nor do the Lycan want a war.