Winter Wolf: Witch & Wolf, #2

By R.J. Blain

The Hunted Wizard

When Nicole dabbled in the occult, she lost it all: Her voice, her family, and her name. Now on the run from the Inquisition, she must prove to herself—and the world—that not all wizards are too dangerous to let live.

The savage murder of a bookstore employee throws Nicole into the middle of Inquisition business, like it or not. Driven by her inability to save the young man's life, she decides to hunt the killer on her own. Using forbidden magic to investigate the past, she learns that the murderer is in fact a disease that could kill the entire werewolf race.

Forced to choose between saving lives and preserving her own, Nicole embraces the magic that sent her into exile. Without werewolves, the power of the Inquisition would dwindle, and she could live without being hunted.

Nicole's only hope for success lies in the hands of the werewolves she hates and the Inquisition she fears, but finding someone to trust is only the beginning of her problems. There are those who want to ensure that the werewolves go extinct and that the Inquisition falls.

But, if she fails to find a cure, her family—including her twin sister—will perish…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing
• Release date: Nov 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781928148012

Book preview

One

I had no reason to worry.

I slammed my car’s door, spun on a heel, and swore I would have a perfectly normal visit to the mall. All I needed was one little book. Even I could walk into a bookstore, pick up a novel, and leave without causing any trouble.

This time I wouldn’t blow out the lights. There wouldn’t be a single power surge. I wouldn’t turn on every unplugged device in the electronics store on my way across the mall. In the ten minutes it would take me to get in and out, the only thing anyone would notice about me was the fact that I wore a high-collared sweater in late summer. I had a mission, and I would complete it without fail. The novel my agent insisted I read would be mine.

For a long moment, I considered turning around and getting back into my car. Dominic would forgive me if I didn’t start reading the book until tomorrow. I could call in a favor and ask someone to pick up a copy for me. Then I definitely wouldn’t run any risk of blowing anything up. If I had been smart, I would’ve just ordered the damned thing on the internet, but I had waited too long.

Fishing my cell out of my pocket, I unlocked the screen with a swipe of my finger. The charging icon mocked me. Despite running every battery-draining app I could find, the battery held a full charge. I opened another app, a devilish program capable of killing the battery in ten minutes. It wouldn’t, not with me around, but if I was too busy keeping my phone topped up, maybe my mall shopping trip would prove to be mundane.

I shook my head, laughing at my foolishness.

No one would notice my phone. No one would notice me for more than a second. They’d notice my clothes, and then they’d file me away as yet another weirdo wearing something strange to catch attention. L.A. was full of people like that.

I had no reason to worry. Even if I managed to embarrass myself yet again by losing control of my powers, no one would know I was the cause of unplugged electronics turning on or unusual power surges.

Straightening my shoulders, I fixed my eyes on the line of glass doors and marched my way across the parking lot.

In and out. No blown lights. No power surges. No feeding power to unplugged electrical devices. No charging batteries for strangers. I was in control, and I would charge only my phone.

Making my way to the entry, I paused long enough to hold the door for a little old lady who insisted on making her way through the regular doors despite her walker. I couldn’t blame her. If I lived to be her age, I wouldn’t want to rely on automatic doors either.

She thanked me with a pat on the arm. Flashing her my best smile, I slipped inside.

Nothing happened.

Perfect.

I could handle ten minutes in the crowded corridors. Maybe if I told myself that enough times, I’d believe it.

I stuck to the center of the hallway, dodging kiosks as I worked my way to the bookstore. Despite being so near to closing time, the place was busy, leaving me to navigate a sea of bodies. I considered stopping at one of the jewelry kiosks. There was something appealing about the humble, cheaper baubles, but I didn’t quite dare.

In and out. No stops, not even to admire the gemstones twinkling under the display lamps. This time, I wasn’t going to break anything, not even a single light.

When I reached the bookstore, I paused at one of the display tables, staring down at the cover of some thriller novel. Picking it up, I pretended to read the back. I focused my attention on the hum of electricity around me. First, I heard—and felt—the lights overhead. Power radiated from them, their glow bleeding energy and heat. Then I felt my cell phone, siphoning energy from me like some inanimate, modern-day vampire. Its little battery hungered, desiring everything I could give it and more. It wanted to be charged.

One by one, I became aware of all of the little devices around me. Almost everyone in the store had a phone. Dormant devices, from reading lights to mobile chargers, littered the tables. One woman browsing books nearby had four battery-powered devices in her purse. One was a phone, and like mine, it hungered. Its need was strong; its battery waned to the point of failure.

If I wanted, I could charge it for her.

No one would notice if I did. Maybe the woman would wonder how her phone hadn’t died before she got home. It only had a few minutes left. It’d take me all of ten seconds to fix it for her. If I did, I wouldn’t be so aware of it. But to do so, I’d have to touch her—or her phone. Some things I could manipulate without having a direct conduit, but cell phone batteries were tricky, greedy things.

I cringed a little, setting the thriller book down. I picked up the next nearest title. I flipped it over, not reading the text on the back. Did I dare? Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the woman browsing through the books. All it would take was a few seconds. I could charge it without her noticing.

That was one thing I was actually good at.

I put the novel I held down and wandered to the same table, careful not to look at her. Book by book, I investigated the titles, circling to where she stood. With luck, she wouldn’t even notice me; if she did, I’d just have to pretend I was a people-person, acting the role and hiding the real me beneath the thin veneer of a lie.

You’re Nicole Thomas, aren’t you? The actress. You’re her. My quarry appraised me with a pleased expression.

People normally recognized the mainliners, people with beautiful faces and voices to match, people who didn’t avoid crowds.

In short, people other than me.

I met her gaze, abandoning my perusal of novels, reminding myself that people expected actresses to be confident, self-assured, and outgoing. It was a role like any other, and I would play it—even if I hated myself for hiding behind a different personality in public. I am, I replied, wincing a little at the sandpaper-rough quality of my voice. At least I hadn’t been reduced to a whisper—yet. My fatal flaw as an actress was my rough, grating voice. Chronic laryngitis did that to a person. It ruined careers, as it had mine, though I hadn’t quite given up on being an actress. I’d already lost the ability to sing.

I wasn’t going to let a stupid disease take everything away from me.

The woman smiled, not seeming to mind talking to someone who sounded more like a zombie than a human. You’re taller than I expected. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

She thrust out her hand.

We shook.

I left her phone alone.

They keep putting me next to giants, I quipped. It was true. When I did manage to get on the silver screen, I worked alongside actors easily a foot-and-a-half taller than me. It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I matched her smile. She didn’t tell me her name, and I didn’t ask for it.

It took all of my will not to fiddle with her phone. All it would take was a murmured word and a thought, and it’d be done. It would have been easy to charge the battery when our hands had been clasped together, but I hadn’t dared.

If, sometime later, she noticed her phone had magically been charged—literally—she might remember me. She knew my name.

And in true cowardice, I couldn’t bring myself to help her. If she connected the strange behavior of her phone with me, she might tell someone. If she did, I’d be as good as dead—or worse. I had dabbled in the occult, and the occult had dabbled back, and there were those who didn’t like when that happened.

The last thing I needed was them finding me.

When is your next film coming out?

Next year. The release announcement will be coming out soon. Like most of my roles, I was in a secondary role, although it was a semi-major film. All things considered, my casting had been a miracle. Dominic was a genius as an agent, and I still had no idea how I, the Sandpaper Queen of L.A., had managed to land him. It certainly hadn’t been through the sparkling qualities of my voice.

The woman smiled, shaking my hand a second time. I look forward to it.

Music played from the woman’s purse, and she pulled her cell out. The device, starving for electricity, called out to me. Looking down at the display, the woman made a displeased noise. Sorry, I have to take this.

Have a good night, I replied, smiling at her, retreating so the phone’s hunger wouldn’t tempt me anymore. I abandoned the display tables and hunted for one of the employees. The store would close soon enough, and if I wanted to read the book tonight, I needed to get home.

Wise actresses didn’t anger their agents, and we had a dinner appointment tomorrow. If Dominic wanted me to read a book, he had a reason for it, and it wasn’t for my personal amusement.

I found a young man stacking novels on one of the tables near the escalators. He straightened when I approached, his eyes widening as he looked me over. Can I help you, ma’am?

Giving him my best smile in the hopes he’d be too distracted by my looks to notice my rough voice, I glanced down at his name tag. "Hey, Scott. Do you have a copy of Among Us by M.L. Silverston in stock?

Scott blinked, his dark eyebrows rising at my question. Sure, this way please.

He led me straight to the fantasy section, gesturing to a pile of hardbacks arranged on a small table in the corner. Thanks, I murmured. The word came out as a rasp.

A blood-splattered cover with a shuffling zombie greeted me. I bit back a sigh, stashing the novel under my arm.

Nicole Thomas, ready-made zombie. With my voice, I’d make a great undead. Maybe I’d get an upgrade to a lich or something. Liches, at least, were unique and way more interesting than zombies or vampires. With my luck, I’d end up a snack to some zombie or vampire in the film.

Murphy and his crappy law were my constant companions, and he got perverse enjoyment out of making me squirm.

I eyed the stack of books and the decaying woman depicted on the cover. Dominic often asked me to read the source material for a new script before sending me to an audition or popping an offer for a film. For the first time in a month, I hoped my agent had managed to find something for me. My career was going through a dry spell worse than California’s persistent drought.

If he did have a role for me related to the book, I’d be golden. Movie adaptions of bestselling novels often did well. Better yet, on a movie set, it was easy to hide my affinity with electric-powered devices. There were so many places I could unleash excess energy without anyone ever noticing, not even after close inspection of the electric bill.

Until filming was done, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. By the time I returned home each night, I’d be exhausted—physically, mentally, and magically. I could go out to the mall and not even have to worry about things like magic because I’d be so tapped out that my cell would be all I needed to control my unwanted powers.

Is that all you need, ma’am? Scott asked, startling me from my thoughts.

I smiled for him again. Yes, tha—

The store’s lights dimmed so low I could barely make out Scott next to me. Several moments passed before they brightened again with an erratic hum and buzz. I stiffened, staring up at the lights. My heart skipped several beats before racing in my chest. Had I unwittingly lost control? I didn’t feel like I had drained the electricity from the lights. There was no telltale tingling or the twitchy nervousness I associated with having an abundance of energy to play with.

I could still—although faintly—feel my phone sipping away at the power I offered it.

Again? Scott asked, his voice deepening with annoyance. That’s been going on all day.

Weird, I replied, forcing myself to look at anywhere other than the ceiling. Anyway, thanks for the help. Have a good night, Scott.

The lights dimmed again, brightening after several long moments.

You too, ma’am.

When I headed towards the registers, Scott followed, pausing now and then to straighten the displays. I caught him staring at me several times, but I pretended not to notice. Was I committing some sort of fashion crime? I adjusted the collar of my red sweater, checking to make sure it covered the scars on my shoulder and neck. It did. I wasn’t wearing anything special. I’d left my jewelry at home. The only thing interesting about me was my leather heeled boots, and those were hidden under my worn jeans.

A little bemused over Scott’s staring, I headed towards the register, reaching into my pocket for my wallet.

The lights went out.

Oh my, the cashier murmured.

Again? Really? What’s this, the fourth outage this week? Scott cursed, and I heard him bump into one of the display tables nearby.

Fifth, the woman behind the register corrected. You’re cursed, Scott. It’s always on your shift! The power will be back on in a minute. Sorry about this, ma’am.

No problem, I replied, staring up at the ceiling. I could feel the residual energy in the lights as tendrils of heat seeped into my skull. If I wanted, I suspected I could route my power through the floor and light the place up.

I probably had enough strength to light the entire mall. I concentrated on my cell phone, focusing my will on it. I wasn’t going to break anything, not even a single light. I definitely wasn’t going to light up the entire mall.

No one would learn the truth about me.

I clutched the book, drumming my fingers against the dust jacket. Someone giggled nervously in the darkness. A cell phone glowed on the other side of the store.

You know, if you have exact change, I can do the sale manually, the cashier offered. I wonder why the generator—

A high-pitched sound sent shivers up and down my spine. For a moment, all I could do was freeze. Something—someone?—screamed. At least, I thought it was a scream; there was nothing human about the hair-raising shriek.

Jesus Christ! Scott’s voice sounded weak. What is—

The wet, dull crunch of breaking bones silenced Scott’s voice. For a moment, I wasn’t in the bookstore, but in my twin’s car, reliving the moment I had crashed through a guardrail into a ravine. My leg, my arm, and my shoulder had made similar sounds before my screams had drowned them out.

My breath caught in my throat.

The splat of something wet hitting the floor nearby freed me from the nightmare of the past. The stench of fresh blood hit me hard. Another stench clogged my nose. I gagged, recoiling a step.

Warmth dripped down my face.

S-scott? the cashier gasped out. There was no answer. Scott? Scott, damn it all, this isn’t funny.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The noise came from nearby, so close I feared I could reach out and touch the source. With a thought and murmured word, I severed the connection to my phone.

Silence.

I tightened my grip on the book, hugging it to my chest. At home, I would have had one of my focal stones to work with, allowing me better control of my powers. At home, there wouldn’t have been witnesses. If I turned the lights in the store on, I’d be found out.

Then I’d be killed.

Scott! The cashier’s voice rose in pitch.

Scott didn’t answer.

Come on, Scott. This isn’t funny anymore, the cashier whispered, her voice trembling.

I swallowed back my own fear and drew several deep breaths. The cashier had said the lights would come back on in a minute.

With a shudder, I closed my eyes. I couldn’t wait that long. Something had happened to Scott.

The lights flickered on, dimly illuminating the bookstore as I started to speak a word that would unleash my power. As I choked back the first syllable, my skin tingled as I suppressed the energy, keeping it from surging into the electronics nearby.

Scott was gone. Squinting in the faint lighting, I looked for the young employee. I was certain I had heard him nearby, but there was no sign of him.

Across the counter from me, the cashier shrieked, holding one hand to her mouth while pointing at the floor in front of me. Oh god. Scott!

I looked down. The pale lump on the ground, splattered in crimson, wasn’t large enough to be a human. It was too misshapen, colored in gray and red instead of flesh tones. I stared, unable to tear my gaze away.

With a flicker and a surge of electricity, the lights flared to full brightness.

Something warm and wet dripped down from the ceiling. My hand trembled as I reached up and touched my cheek. The tips of my fingers came away red with blood. Crimson stained the floor, the books, the tables, and had splattered on the ceiling.

I had been right. The shape on the floor was too small to be a person.

It was only part of one—a part of Scott.

The occult had dabbled with me, but it had ripped him to pieces.

Fake blood, the stuff they used on movie sets when the director didn’t want to use CGI, was nothing like the real thing. It lacked heat, turning a regular shoot into a sticky, shiver-inducing chore.

Scott’s blood was warm. After what felt like an eternity—but couldn’t have been any more than a few minutes—his blood still hadn’t dried or cooled. Drop by drop, it fell from the ceiling onto me, the cashiers’ counters, the tabletops, and the floor.

I couldn’t force myself to move, fearing it would shatter the quiet that had taken hold of the store. Maybe, if I stood there long enough, everything would prove to be a nightmare instead of reality.

I wanted to close my eyes, but I didn’t dare. What I might imagine terrified me more than the reality of Scott’s mangled body lying at my feet. His sightless eyes were fixed on me, accusing me of not having done something to save him. I shifted my stare to something—anything—other than him, picking one of the shelves filled with books I’d probably never get a chance to read.

Then my thoughts wandered to the last thing I wanted to think about. Could I have saved him? People like me—wizards, practitioners of the darkest arts—were hunted down because there were those who believed we could do anything, and that made us dangerous.

Scott had died right in front of me, and I hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent it. If wizards were so powerful, I should have been able to stop his death.

I survived each day by running and hiding from those who believed people like me needed to be destroyed. Maybe they were right. Maybe, somehow, I had caused Scott’s death. Had I lost control and used the powers I tried so hard to hide? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have any answers.

Someone must have had the presence of mind to call for help, though I didn’t know how they had managed to. When the police arrived, the stunned silence broke into a chaotic cacophony of everyone talking at once. Some screamed. Some cried. Others crumbled under the horror of a death too gruesome to be real.

The presence of the cops turned the nightmare into something none of us could deny.

I kept still, staring at the uniformed men as they burst into the bookstore. They stopped and stared at the cash registers, their mouths hanging open as they took in the kind of carnage that belonged in a zombie movie. One of them fainted, collapsing in a boneless heap. I drew several quick breaths, but managed to quell the surge of panic coursing through me. Fainting would’ve been smart; I wouldn’t have to see anything at all. I wouldn’t have to face the nagging doubt that I was somehow responsible for Scott’s death.

At the light touch of a hand on my elbow, I sucked in a breath, flinching away. My heart tried to escape out of my chest via my throat, strangling my shriek.

Nicole? It was the woman I’d spoken to before. Her dead cell phone was clutched in her pale fingers. I’m sorry, I didn’t…

Gasping so I wouldn’t throw up, I waved my hand. It shook. I swallowed several times. It’s fine. You just startled me a little.

Come away from there, she replied, tugging at my arm. With more strength than I expected, she pulled me away from Scott’s body. I didn’t fight her. When she pressed my stained copy of Among Us into my hands, I managed not to drop it.

I’m sorry, I mumbled.

Don’t be. It’s terrible, the woman replied, a faint waver in her voice. She shook her head. I can barely believe it. With a shudder, she turned so her back faced Scott’s body. I followed her lead. It didn’t let me forget that my sweater was soaked with his blood.

Nodding my agreement was all I could do. If I tried to speak, I feared I’d come undone. Maybe I’d react like the poor cashier. Her shoulders shook from the force of her tears, though to my relief, she no longer screamed. Some sick and violent part of me wanted to lash out and burn away the evidence of Scott’s death.

I squished the impulse.

I hate to ask, Nicole, but my phone died. Can I borrow yours? The woman rubbed her hands together, the motion drawing my gaze. It was a fidgeting, nervous gesture, and my eyes focused on the blood staining her pale, perfect skin.

I blinked several times before I comprehended what she was asking. Shoving my hand into my pocket, I fished out my cell and unlocked the screen. With a swipe of a finger and several quick taps, I closed the battery-draining apps. I handed it over to her.

Blood splattered the screen, and there was nothing I could do about it. The woman grimaced, but accepted my phone, took a few steps away from me, and dialed a number.

She held my cell to her ear, and Scott’s blood smeared her cheek. Hey, it’s Laura. I’m going to be late. Something happened at the mall.

Something had happened, all right. If an award existed for the understatement of the year, I would have nominated her without hesitation. Still, I marveled at her confidence and even tone of voice.

I’m fine, but we’ll talk later. It’s pretty bad. Look, I’ve got to go. The police look like they’re getting ready to question us. There was a long pause, and she wrinkled her nose, shifting my phone to her other ear. I told you, I’m fine. Laura leaned against one of the tables and drummed her fingers against my phone. Her lips pressed together into a thin line.

When she caught me staring at her, she turned away, speaking in a much softer voice. Why do you care? I borrowed the phone from someone at the mall. Mine died.

I turned around to give her some privacy, careful to avert my eyes. The conversation was too quiet for me to make out the specifics, but there was anger in the woman’s voice. It wasn’t long before she returned, holding my phone out to me.

Offering her a forced smile, I took it back and slipped it in my pocket. I guess it’s going to be a long night for all of us.

Are you okay?

It frightened me at how easy it was to slide into an acting role, to pretend I hadn’t been at ground zero of a death that event major movie studios weren’t brave enough to show. I tried not to think of what type of person I was portraying in my effort to disbelieve what had happened.

I’m okay, I lied.

Deep lines creased Laura’s brow, but she didn’t question me. After a long moment of silence, she nodded. You’re a tough woman, Nicole. I’m glad I got to meet you, although I wish it were under better circumstances.

I wanted to run home, find the darkest corner of my cheap apartment, and curl into the fetal position, but I couldn’t tell her that. You’re pretty tough yourself.

Laura smiled and nodded. When one of the police officers approached us, she intercepted him. Instead of following her, I turned away. The cashier’s eyes met mine; her pupils were dilated, and she breathed in shallow pants through her mouth. Despite the crowd of people, the steady flow of paramedics, and the increasing number of officers crowding the bookstore, she stood alone.

Careful to keep my chin lifted and my eyes fixed on anywhere other than the floor and Scott’s body, I made my way over to where she stood behind the cash registers. Clearing my throat didn’t get her attention. When I touched her elbow, the young woman jerked away from me with a startled cry.

I didn’t mean to scare you. I kept my tone quiet, though I doubted there was anything soothing about my hoarse voice. Maybe this was one of those circumstances when the thought counted more than anything else.

Have you seen Scott? While she looked at me, her eyes didn’t focus on anything. I wasn’t even certain she knew who I was—or cared. Her expression was slack. The sickly pallor of her skin contrasted against the red-brown of drying blood. She looked more like a zombie than a living, breathing person.

I swallowed several times so I wouldn’t throw up.

How could I tell her that Scott was dead, lying on the floor not even ten feet from where she stood? I couldn’t. Maybe that made me a coward, but I couldn’t force myself to point out what was right in front of her.

It was too cruel.

Maybe Laura, who had pulled me away from Scott’s body when I didn’t know what to do, had the right idea. No one deserved to see what had happened to Scott. Not his friends, nor his family. But what could I do to help her?

My ill-gotten powers couldn’t bring the dead back to life.

She didn’t notice when I wiggled between her and her cash register, using my body as a way to shield her from seeing Scott’s corpse. A gentle shove was all it took for me to herd her towards the front door where the police and paramedics awaited. They stared at me, but I shook my head and gave the cashier a gentle push towards one of the uniformed men.

She knew him, I said, gesturing with my chin at the bloody hell behind me.

One of the paramedics stepped forward and stopped me with his outstretched hand.

You should be examined, ma’am, he said.

I sidestepped, once again shaking my head.

There was a trick to lying, and I used it without shame. The first step in telling a good, believable lie was to look confident, so I stared at him. The paramedic’s eyes were blue, and the color stood out against his dark-tanned skin. When our eyes met, I didn’t look away.

The second was to sound sincere. My chronic laryngitis made that harder for me, but I managed to keep my tone even. She needs help. I don’t.

Though he looked skeptical, he nodded and turned his attention to the cashier. I made my escape from the paramedics by heading towards the other side of the store, away from the blood stains, away from the cops.

I didn’t make it far before a beak-nosed detective in his mid-forties or fifties intercepted me. Please come with me.

The heavy weight of expectation brought me to a halt. Dreading the inevitable accusations, I stared into the cop’s dark eyes. I wasn’t sure if they were brown or blue. Something about the man’s dark tan washed the color out. Maybe the fault was with me, because I was ready to swear there was a red glint around the cop’s pupils.

Maybe I was closer to breaking down than I wanted to think about.

At a curt gesture, one of the paramedics handed him a bottle of water. With a twist of his wrist, he pulled off the cap and handed it to me. We’re locking the scene down. Come, he said, with the sharp edge of authority in his voice.

The wicked, violent part of me considered silencing him for his tone, but the rest of me was too tired and worn to argue. With a barked order, he herded those of us who had witnessed Scott’s death together and marched us out of the store.

Two

With my luck, Scott would come back from the dead as a vengeful spirit.

The cops took over the food court, descending on the hapless late-night crowd. With an almost-brutal efficiency, they herded everyone out, leaving us survivors to watch the exodus. I envied them; they could escape. I couldn’t. Many stopped and stared, particularly at the blood on my clothes, but with the beak-nosed detective snarling at them, they hurried away and made themselves scarce.

The cops managed to keep me occupied for the few minutes it took them to clear the place out. For whatever reason, they were determined to keep us separated and quiet. I’m not sure why they bothered putting in the effort. Some, like me, had refused medical attention, but we weren’t making any efforts to talk to each other. Most of us we were too stunned by Scott’s death to do anything at all or were trying to not throw up.

All I could think about was why Scott had died and not me. I was a wizard, something feared and hunted down by the Inquisition for being an abomination. It made no sense to kill him when a bigger threat—me—could have been removed. I swallowed and tried to forget, but between my blood-stained book and sticky sweater, forgetting about what happened to Scott was impossible. Worry lurked beneath my every thought. Would whatever had killed Scott come for me next? Did my presence put everyone else in the mall at risk? Why would anyone kill such a pleasant and kind bookstore employee?

Had it all been a mistake, and in the dark, the murderer killed the wrong person?

I didn’t know, and that scared me most of all.

I envied those who managed to escape from the mall. Under the watchful eye of the beak-nosed detective, the cops converted the food court into a corral of witnesses. They assigned me a seat on the far side of the court, the farthest point from any route of escape. I shivered as I sat, placing my palms on the wobbling table. The cover of Among Us taunted me; I wasn't familiar enough with the art to tell which of the stains were real.

With my luck, Scott would come back from the dead as a vengeful spirit or walking corpse to seek revenge on those of us who still lived. Or worse, he’d come after me because it was my fault he had died.

I swallowed, shaking my head. What would I tell the cops when it was my turn to be questioned? They wouldn't believe I hadn't done it. I was the only one who had been close enough to kill him. I was covered in his blood. It was only a matter of time before the Inquisition investigated such an unusual, violent death, and when they did, I’d be in their sights. With a single mistake, I’d join Scott as a corpse. Maybe they were already aware of me, but had missed their mark, killing Scott instead.

The Inquisition put down those like me, who made unfortunate explorations into the world of witchcraft, awakening forbidden powers.

I lifted my bloodstained hand to touch my sweater's high collar. Through the loose-knitted yarn, I could feel my pulse. Twisting scars stretched from my neck, over my shoulder, and down my stomach in a permanent reminder of the car crash I didn't really remember. But I couldn't forget the circumstances of my flight leading to my hell and my disaster.

My sister had become one of them.

I should have known it was inevitable; while my mother and father were Fenerec—werewolves to those who didn’t know better—they had always been careful to let my sister and I lead normal human lives. We weren’t special enough to be one of them. But all of that had changed when my sister had undergone some ritual. Because we were twins, she had tried to take me with her.

In my cowardice, I had fled.

When I had recovered from the car accident, spending a year in the hospital as a Jane Doe thousands of miles from home, it had been simple enough to run away. I had run to L.A. to sing away the worst of my nightmares, and I had become someone new. Someone free.

And I had been free, until my voice had died away, and I had stooped to desperate measures to try to salvage my crumbling career.

I shook my head to clear it. The past wouldn't help me now, not when the cops would come calling for me, demanding to know how I had murdered Scott. Would they believe me when I told them the truth? I didn't dare speak of the occult, and my speculations that something was out there, in the mall, waiting to strike again. If there were Inquisitors among the police, they’d learn I wasn’t the normal human I pretended to be.

Normal people believed witches, wizards, and werewolves didn't exist, but a werewolf could've easily killed Scott, though I couldn't tell the detectives about my fears. My mouth twisted into a scowl. Werewolves hated their informal name, though I couldn't remember who had told me that. My father had probably told me a little, though I had learned more about my pedigree from a book than I did from my family.

Fenerec, I guessed, was a more noble term for the vicious beasts wearing human skins.

I stared down at Among Us, working up the courage to touch the cover. I shuddered when my fingers trailed over the patches of dried blood. The texture was rough and cracked where it hadn’t been able to seep into the glossy cover of the novel.

The clearing of a throat startled me. I twisted away from the sound, swallowing back a startled gasp.

A police officer stared down at me with dark eyes. Please come with me, ma'am.

I blinked, but did my best to compose myself. It didn't work very well. To my credit, I didn't throw up on him. My legs trembled as I stood. The cop didn't say another word, gesturing with his chin towards the other side of the food court, which had emptied while I had been lost in thought, leaving only me and a few lingering officers.

Ma'am?

I flinched and took a tentative step after the officer. When my knees didn't buckle beneath me, I hurried to catch up, staring at his shiny shoes. Did all cops wear polished shoes, or had I been cursed with someone with more vanity than sense? Did it matter? I cringed a little at my superficial worries about a cop and his shoes.

Do you have a car, ma'am? The cop spoke in a low, soothing voice, as if I were some abused kitten in need of comfort. I don't know why his tone angered me, but I lifted my chin, and narrowed my eyes at him.

"It's parked out front, sir," I growled back. Maybe my hoarse voice hindered me more often than not, but there were perks. When I wanted to sound vicious, all I had to do was cease my efforts to keep my words smooth and mellow. Maybe I was a fool, but it gave me courage pretending I could swallow shrapnel, chew it up, and spit bullets.

The cop's eyes widened. To his credit, instead of backing down, he nodded. If you give me your license plate and model, I'll make sure it is taken care of.

Taken care of could mean a lot of things when said by a cop. I hoped he meant my car wouldn't get towed and I wouldn't be fined an exorbitant amount for parking after hours at the mall. With my dubious relationship with Murphy’s Law, I suspected my car would be impounded and I would have to fight the city in order to get it back.

Maybe if they did take it, I'd just let them have it. That'd serve them right. Instead of expressing my opinion on what I thought would happen, I gave the cop the information. He wrote it down on a note pad, ripped the sheet out, and handed the page to one of the other cops standing guard.

With brisk efficiency, the cop herded me to a waiting police car, and to my surprise, he opened the front door and gestured for me to slip inside. I nodded, mumbled my thank you, and climbed in.

The beak-nosed detective waited for me inside. Buckle up, he ordered. Then he hesitated, inspecting me from head to toe. Please don't touch anything.

I considered rebelling, but I obediently reached over my shoulder, grabbed the seat belt, and buckled in. It was something I did whenever I drove, although being told to do it left a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I valued my life, and dying because I hadn't worn my seat belt was one of the last ways I wanted to go.

Then again, a mundane, normal death was better than what waited for me if the Inquisition found out that I existed. I grimaced at the thought. Right now, worrying about the Inquisition was the least of my concerns.

I had to survive my interrogation first. Maybe, if luck decided to side with me, I’d understand why the killer had chosen a young bookstore employee instead of me.

You can call me Detective Harding, the cop said, starting the car after I clicked my belt into place. He paused, and there was a sickening expectation in the silence.

Nicole Thomas, I murmured. While all I wanted was to retreat and find a hole to bury myself in and cry, I couldn’t. I had to answer questions for the police, and I had to do so without them figuring out I wasn’t a regular human. Maybe if I focused on Scott, and poured all of my compassion into helping the police find his killer, everything would work out. And if detectives found Scott’s killer, I’d be safe.

If the mask I showed the world wasn’t perfect, if I didn’t hide myself flawlessly, I would die. The Inquisition would surely find me, if Scott’s killer didn’t come for me first.

The world believed Nicole Thomas knew nothing of the Inquisition, so I’d play that part.

He said nothing as he pulled the car out of the parking lot, leaving me to my thoughts. I glanced at the speedometer. He drove just under the legal limit, came to a complete halt at every stop sign, and signaled at every turn. He ignored the mounted laptop dominating the center console of the car, and while he listened to the dispatcher on the radio, his eyes never left the road.

Maybe it was the shock of Scott's death, but the buzz of the electronics in the police car didn't bother me too much. While the temptation to siphon away some of the energy and make it my own was there, I resisted it with little effort.

It reminded me of the feeling I had after a full day on the movie set, satiated and tired enough I didn’t need to charge the devices around me. Even my cell phone behaved, my awareness of its hunger reduced to a faint whisper in the back of my head.

We arrived at the police station, and Officer Harding parked. Before I finished unbuckling, he managed to get out and circle his car to open the door for me. I thanked him with a nod, although I couldn't quite force myself to smile.

This way, Miss Thomas, he ordered, gesturing to the police station. I followed several steps behind him.

I had never been in a police station before, and it took all of half a minute for me to hope I'd never have to step inside one ever again. There was something about the place, an unpleasant charge in the air. It wasn't electricity, but something else, something far more sinister.

It chilled me from the inside out.

The reception room was surprisingly sterile, with bolted-down chairs and bullet-proof glass protecting the officers from any unruly visitors who might be tempted to break into the station. A steel door guarded the back, and Officer Harding led me to it without as much as a glance at his fellow cops or the few waiting.

Those people, I noticed, were in handcuffs. All of them, except for a wild-eyed woman wearing bedraggled designer rags, were Hispanic. I didn't have long to stare, wondering at the unfairness of so many white cops delivering judgment on others. When I hesitated, Officer Harding seized my elbow, dragging me down a hallway and into an elevator.

He selected the second floor. We rode in silence, broken only by the whirr of the elevator and the metallic swish as the door opened.

Hallways, apparently, were commonplace in police stations. I could hear the muted murmur of conversations behind pairs of closed doors. To my surprise, the doors were made of glass, allowing me to see where pairs of cops were questioning people.

Through the first door, I recognized Laura, who spoke energetically to a pair of women.

These are our questioning rooms. We use them to talk to witnesses and suspects, so they can have privacy. As you can tell, they're sound proofed, so no unauthorized individuals will be able to listen to our discussions, Harding said, gesturing towards the room Laura was in.

I expected I would be questioned, over and over again, until I was sick of repeating myself. I'd seen enough cop shows on TV to have at least some idea of what to expect. It was easy for me to imagine an overbearing detective towering over the victim seated on one of those uncomfortable chairs as they were interrogated. I struggled against my growing unease as I was led down the hall. It opened up to a glass-shielded room full of cubicles and police officers.

Officer Harding opened the door at the end of the hall and gestured me inside. The room had an empty, unwelcoming feel to it, furnished with a dull metal table and three folding chairs, more plastic than metal. I said nothing, but nodded to acknowledge that I had seen his gesture.

When the detective left me alone, I systematically emptied my pockets, pulled out my ID, and waited in silence. Pacing like a caged animal wouldn't help anything, although it may have helped diffuse the restless energy building up within me. Once again, I was aware of the thrum of electronics. A hidden camera nestled in one corner near the ceiling. The intercom devoured electricity, surprising in its hunger. Several smaller devices littered the walls, though I couldn't guess what they did.

The temptation to lash out and blow out all of the devices surged within me. I placed my palms on the smooth surface of the table, splayed my fingers, and drew ten deep breaths until the desire subsided.

A police station was the last place I wanted to stretch my wizardly legs and cause trouble. For all I knew, Inquisitors served as police. Sobered by the thought, I stared down at the tabletop, reined in my impulses, and waited.

Time was supposed to be a steady constant; the duration of a second simply did not change. My perception of time, however, was a fluid thing. For a while it flew by, whipped along by the frantic beat of my heart. Then, as if accepting the inevitability of a lengthy wait, it slowed. Seconds, minutes, or even hours didn't matter. It slogged along with the same lethargy of molasses in winter.

Worse, I was alone. Silent company would’ve helped me accept that I wasn’t the only one suffering from Scott’s death. It consumed me, gnawing away at my sanity with each passing moment. I couldn't escape the memory of his final moments or the sensation of his dried blood cracking on my skin. I didn't dare take off my sweater although I wore a tank top underneath.

They would question my scars. Maybe the Inquisition wouldn’t realize the cause of them, but I couldn’t afford the risk. If they asked about them, I would have to lie, and if I lied, they might learn the truth. Then Scott’s killer wouldn’t need to worry about me at all.

My eyes burned with unshed tears, but none fell. As if mocking me, my stomach gurgled, aching with primitive need. Food gave the body the strength to heal, to cope, and to survive, but the last thing I wanted was a reminder I lived. Why had the murderer chosen Scott? I had been so close to him. It wouldn’t have cost the killer any effort to target me instead.

Yet I had lived, and Scott had died.

But why Scott?

The lights flickered overhead, and I stared up at the ceiling. Out of habit, I focused on my burdensome power, but the lights continued to dim and brighten. It wasn’t me. I sucked in a breath, my eyes widening.

The lights in the bookstore had flickered from frequent power outages. Could Scott have been a wizard like me? Had his death been caused by the Inquisition?

I shuddered. The Inquisition was a lot of things, but from what I understood, they preferred a gun in an alley or a knife in the dark, not such a public murder. Everything I had read about the Inquisition implied they avoided attention, and that was why I still lived. Like them, I didn’t want to be found.

If Scott had been new to his powers and hadn’t known how to control himself, the Inquisition would’ve found him, of that I had no doubt. I had been lucky. I had known about the Inquisition before I had become a wizard, all because of my family’s tainted nature. The rest I had learned from a book.

Homesickness was a funny thing. Home wasn’t something I’d thought of in a long time. I had abandoned it. I didn’t have a right to feel the melancholy of wanting something that was on the other side of a bridge I had set torch to and watched burn. Home was a place where I had a mother, a father, and a twin sister. In our own way, we had been happy.

But knowledge had changed everything. While I didn’t exactly understand the relationship between the Fenerec and the Inquisition, I knew they would kill me if they found out I existed. That awareness had saved my life when I had lacked control. It had spurred me to learn to control myself before I was discovered, allowing me to hide in the open.

If Scott had been a wizard, he hadn’t been as lucky.

The door burst open and Officer Harding swept into the room. I squeaked, clapping my filthy hands to my mouth to mask the sounds of my fright. Another cop followed him, a young woman who looked fresh out of high school, let alone old enough to serve as a member of the police force.

Harding slapped down a thin manila folder, and sat down next to me. This is Detective Faraday.

Detective Faraday didn’t quite sigh although I suspected she wanted to. A wrinkle creased her brow, and there was nothing friendly about the way she glared at Harding before circling the table to take the chair opposite me. She made an effort to smile