Free Family Pride (Blood of the Pride) by Sheryl Nantus Page A

another. Sobbing, muffled with a pillow or clothing.
    A childish giggle at the third. Boyish, high-pitched. Low whispering, another male.
    By the time I got to the end of the corridor my senses were saturated, the virtual pool overflowing with what I could smell and hear. It took a concentrated effort to clamp down, get control and restrict my intake to what I wanted. I’d learned hard and fast the first day I’d landed in Toronto how to pick and choose what I wanted to experience. It’d proven to be an asset to my livelihood but still a sore point at times when I lost control.
    I paused in front of the hotel door. There was no use in taking my anger out on Molly—whether I agreed or not with what she was doing she was Liam’s mother.
    A slow, deep exhalation brought me down to earth. All I needed was a set of signatures and this would all be over.
    I rapped at Molly Callendar’s door with short, sharp bursts.
    The door shifted under my touch. I touched the white painted wood with my fingertips and pushed it open.
    At first I didn’t panic. The thick carpet in many hotel rooms made it hard to shut the door enough to have the lock catch. It looked closed but it only took a fraction of an inch to keep the lock from grabbing. It’d happened before when I’d left.
    The coppery scent smashed into my mouth as I stepped inside. I knew the smell, knew it intimately.
    Blood.
    Another sharper, more pungent smell rose up. I didn’t need to be Felis to recognize that one.
    Feces and urine.
    And not just what a baby would create.
    I moved toward the couch, picking each step with care. If I was right the police would want to know exactly where I placed my feet.
    Molly Callendar lay between the couch and the coffee table, dead. She lay facedown on the cheap industrial-issue carpet, her arms stretched out in front of her toward the crib. Blood seeped out from under her left side. She’d been shot in the chest.
    The other bullet hole was at the back of her head. It’d taken part of her face off but I recognized her. Her short red hair was now dotted with bits of bone and brain.
    I instinctively knelt down and pressed my fingers to her throat, hoping against hope to find a pulse. The odds were against it but miracles had happened before.
    Not even a flutter under the skin. She was cold and clammy to my touch; she’d been dead for a while—not long after I’d left her.
    My inner voice snapped she was past saving and I had another person to worry about, another life in this room of death.
    The baby.
    I sprang toward the portable crib, not caring where I stepped.
    It was empty except for a small stuffed lion sitting in one corner, winking at me. No diaper bag, no bottles of formula.
    No baby.
    I closed my eyes and tried to pull up what little calm I had left. The situation had gone from bad to worse to horribly, horribly terrible beyond anything imaginable.
    I retreated to the front door and dug my cell phone out. It took three tries to hit 911, my numb fingers refusing to work properly.
    The cab driver wasn’t going to like losing his return fare.
    * * *
    The police came, the cab driver left and the hotel owner was very, very unhappy.
    The homicide detective who showed up flinched when I mentioned my friendship with one of his colleagues, Hank Attersley, and my intention to say nothing to anyone but Hank. A short phone call later, and I was off to the police station with an escort to see Hank while CSI processed the scene and the coroner dealt with the dead body.
    It took over an hour to get washed and rinsed through the system, finally ending up sitting in an interrogation room waiting for Hank and in the early grip of a major migraine.
    My cell phone had stayed mercifully silent. The last thing I needed right now was to try to explain to Bran why I was at the police station.
    I looked around the room. The two-way mirror was scratched and bent in spots, showing physical contact. It smelled like sweat and fear and blood with a