Full Blooded (Jessica McClain #1)

Full Blooded (Jessica McClain #1) Page 13

I know, I saw Danny today. It was nice to see a friendly face, especially if a storm of discontent is on its way. He was exactly the same. Nothing ever changes with him.

Danny is loyal to Pack. You can trust him with your life.

I was curious about our brain connection. When we were kids, we were never farther than a few miles away from each other. How far away do you think we can do this mind thing from? Do you think there are stipulations? Like mind-wave distance boundaries or something?

Pretty far, I’d assume. I was outside the city limits all day, just got back. I wanted to touch base before you went home, so this was the easiest way.

It was my turn to snort. You mean you were ordered by Dad to check up on me to see if I was still breathing once you got back into town? To make sure no rogue wolves or trusted Pack mates have torn me to pieces yet?

That too. He chuckled.

I sobered. Tyler. I paused. How long do you think we really have until my shift to full blooded blows up in our faces? Before there’s no turning back? I desperately want my life to go back to normal, but it doesn’t seem remotely possible. I want you to tell me the truth. The honest-to-goodness, in-my-face truth.

Honestly? He sighed. I don’t have a clue. If we can quiet the Pack, we gain time. If not … I don’t know. What happened to you is completely unprecedented. None of us have any idea what we’re dealing with yet. We have no way to know how the community will react to the news. The wolves have always feared the Cain Myth, but other supes might have that information too. I have no idea what they’ll choose to do with it, if anything.

I’m fooling myself, aren’t I? Thinking I can just go back to my normal life like nothing’s happened—like I’m not a freak of nature. Like there’s not going to be an army rising up against me at the first opportunity.

No. I don’t think you’re fooling yourself. You’re not the type. He paused for a moment. I think we’re doing the right thing here. If we have any chance of keeping the biggest secret in supernatural history under wraps—and us werewolves are known for our secrecy, make no mistake about it—then you need to be right where you are now, pretending nothing has happened. If it does happen to get out, it happened to Jessica McClain, who is currently in parts unknown, not to Molly Hannon, who’s been minding her business while this story unfolds. He cleared his throat, which sounded odd. I think if we keep your alias intact, we have a shot. I really do.

A shot. That’s not saying a whole hell of a lot.

Well, it’s more than saying we’re fucked right out of the gates.

I laughed. That’s very true.

And, Jess? Now that you’re a wolf, you know you’re going to have to make a full change soon, right? A new wolf feels the pull often. Your body will ache to run. We usually head down by the river after midnight. Next week at the very latest.

I shivered remembering my change. Not in my top ten fun moments. Got it. Other than hunger, I’m not feeling much of anything.

It’ll come.

I’ll take your word for it.

If you need me, you know where to find me.

I opened my apartment door and found a surprise. All of my broken furniture, which basically meant everything I owned, had been cleared out. Including the shredded couch. The floor also appeared to have been swept and mopped, and other than the deep, angry gouge marks and a few ragged dents in the wall, it looked like a new apartment.

Dunn had been good to his word.

I lugged two bags of groceries I’d just purchased into my kitchen. I quickly put everything away, and then made myself two pounds of spaghetti and stuck a whole loaf of garlic bread in the oven. Thank goodness for take n’ bakes.

It took me under ten minutes to eat the entire meal, and five to clean it up.

I headed into my bedroom. Time to get ready for the Drake run. I opened my closet doors and gave a happy sigh. Finally the fun part of my day. Anticipation rippled across my spine and soft tingles raced down to my fingertips. I reached in and selected a few hangers, smiling like a fiend.

Time for a little kickass.

There were a lot of things in my closet I was fond of, but my stakeout clothes were by far my favorite. I’d learned the hard way, being unfettered and fluid was a necessary part of my job.

And it was a purely fortunate accident that my ass looked fantastic in spandex.

I dropped my jeans and slid on a pair of silky black leggings. They fit like a second skin and were supposed to be tear-resistant, water-resistant, and somewhat flame-resistant—if someone threw a lit match at me, not if I were to become engulfed in flames. They were satiny and insanely comfortable. A small pocket was sewn into the waistband just big enough to hold my ID, which was handy since regular pockets don’t work well on skintight.

I matched them with a long-sleeved spandex top of the same material. It had tightly woven mesh under the arms, to make it breathable, and extra padding running halfway down the sleeves. There were also two loops sewn onto each arm, right below my shoulders, to hold weapons of my choosing.

I wasn’t carrying any throwing weapons tonight, however.

Incubi weren’t known for their fighting skills. I wasn’t going to need much more than my fists, especially since they were packing extra heat these days.

I finished the ensemble by pulling on a tight black knit cap and I knotted my hair at the base of my neck. My hair was a problem, and by all rights I should’ve chopped it off a long time ago. It had gotten me into trouble in the past, and being incapacitated by hair-pulling could prove a fatal mistake. But vanity was a bitch and I liked my hair long.

I laced up a pair of custom-made black cross-trainers, which boasted extremely thick treads and a line of thinly molded steel running protectively around the toes. They also sported tiny Velcro pouches sewn discreetly on the sides. Very handy for sneaking in a wire undetected.

You could custom order just about anything if you had the money. An extra thousand and I could’ve had my outfit spelled. Though, depending on who you were up against, the spelling didn’t come with a guarantee. A higher demon or sorcerer could smash right through most things if they had enough strength. Plus, the last time I had a thousand dollars to spare was, um, never. My dad had offered to supplement me on many occasions over the years, but I’d never accepted. It’d taken a lot for me to finally earn my independence off Compound, and I took it very seriously.

I hadn’t heard any different from Nick, so I assumed we were on schedule. I grabbed my cell phone, pushed my ID into the front of my pants, and headed out.

In the lot, I opened my car door and slid inside. I leaned over and pulled open the glove box first to check my handgun. My licensed-to-carry, palm-sized 9mm Glock 26 looked brand-new. I’d hardly ever needed it. I did a cursory check of the sight line and the magazine. It shot jacketed silver hollow-point bullets, with added silver shavings at the tip. The bullet was meant to explode on impact and send silver streaming into the blood of whoever was pissing me off at that very moment. It was deadly, because silver worked on most supernaturals. Not all myths were true—which I knew firsthand—but silver was spot-on. Silver, in its purest form, had the highest electrical and thermal conductivity of any metal and reacted like fire to whatever magic fueled the blood of a supernatural. Only the oldest vampires and shifters could fully recover from silver poisoning without massive intervention.

I could hit a running target dead-on, but a gun would never be my weapon of choice. It was too clumsy. But it was nice to know I had a little something-something in reserve when the going got tough. I put it back, closed it up and headed out.

Nick lived only a few minutes from me. He was waiting at the curb. His outfit was black, but was lacking in the shine department. His loss. He opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Feel good to be back?” he asked. “Or do you wish you’d kept right on running Saturday morning?” He held a bag of goodies that smelled suspiciously like the pecan cinnamon rolls from my favorite bakery around the corner from his place.

“What, and leave all this behind?” I spread my arms over the wheel in mock exaggeration, then I nodded toward the bag. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yep. I figured if yesterday’s forty pit stops were any indication, you’d be hungry within the first ten minutes. When I went through my transition, if I went without food for more than an hour I was in danger of gnawing on my own leg. Plus, I knew if I fed you these sticky, sweet things at regular intervals, I could keep you relatively happy and focused on the task.”

“Good thinking, ace,” I said. “Now open that bag and toss me one.”

The movie theater Drake had chosen to haunt was located just outside the city limits. It was one of those mega–theater complexes, situated at the edge of a long flowing suburb that used to be nothing but farmland. It boasted eighteen screens and three full snack bars.

We pulled into the main parking lot and drove to the overflow lot, located a hefty distance from the main entrance.

I swung the car into the farthest space available, right next to a grassy knoll. Over the top of the small hill more undeveloped land stretched across the landscape—most likely awaiting a future Home Depot or Wal-Mart. There were a few young trees and bushes dotting the boundary, but otherwise it was pretty bare. It was the perfect location for someone like Drake to take someone unaware. Which was exactly why we were here.

“How do you want to run this?” I asked, turning to Nick, before snagging another sweet, delicious roll. I licked the sticky caramel from my fingers. He was the levelheaded-planner type and I was the take-action-and-ask-questions-later type, so Nick usually ran the points.

“When it gets dark, one of us stays,” Nick said. “And one of us heads back into the trees until he shows. If he’s agitated, he won’t be able to hold out long. Once he finds a suitable target, he’ll move.”

“Okay, I’ll take the trees. I’m too pumped to sit still anyway.” More cars pulled into the lot. “I hate when we have to deal with the lowlifes. It’s always so depressing.”