Wicked Creatures: The Unnaturals Series, #3

By Jessica Meigs

Scott Hunter hadn't expected to end up in New Orleans.

 

But that's where he and his partner, Riley Walker, have found themselves: in the heart of a city known for its connections to the supernatural. That reputation is well earned—and makes itself known when the bodies start to drop around them.

 

Scott quickly realizes what's after them this time: werewolves. But they're not acting alone. There's a woman, one dressed all in red, one with the ability to command werewolves to her will. And she's fixated on Scott as her next target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Meigs
• Release date: Oct 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393638339

Book preview

One

The chain holding the punching bag to its moorings in the ceiling rattled angrily as Riley Walker’s foot connected with the bag, sending it swinging. It had barely begun its counter-swing back toward her when she spun, striking out with her other foot, slamming it into the bag from the opposite direction as her previous kick. She followed it up with a series of rapid punches with her gloved fists. Her braid whipped her across the face as she spun again, landing another solid kick on the bag.

Beating up on a heavy bag wasn’t doing a thing for her anger. But she kept at it, pounding the hell out of it until her heart raced, her fists hurt, and her muscles quivered. She took a step back, her lungs heaving, and stared at the bag as it swung on its chain like a pendulum.

The hotel’s air conditioning wasn’t quite keeping up with the heat and sweat she’d generated sparring with the bag. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been wailing on it; she’d left her watch in her room. She hadn’t been able to help herself, though. It’d been three weeks since she’d gotten a good workout in, and the chance to punch something was irresistible. She couldn’t very well punch the man that had pushed her into letting him come with her; he couldn’t even really fight back at the moment.

She paced away from the bag and grabbed the gym towel she’d left draped over the end of a nearby bench. After she stripped her kickboxing gloves off, she scrubbed the sweat off her face, arms, and hands and took a minute to look over the room. It was a typical hotel gym, though it had a few extra amenities that a lot of hotels didn’t have, but considering it was more upscale than the hotels she normally went for, that was no surprise. It had been empty when she’d first entered shortly after five in the morning, but in the time she’d been beating the shit out of the heavy bag, two men had entered and begun their own workouts. As she toweled sweat off her neck and shoulders, she surreptitiously checked them out, assessing whether they were threats. One of the men—the one trekking along at a slow pace on a treadmill—was overweight and somewhere over middle-aged, wearing a navy blue t-shirt that was already sweat stained, looking like the thought of exercise alone terrified him. He wasn’t a threat to her; the Agency didn’t enlist people like that man, not even as paper pushers.

Which left the second man in the room.

He was younger than Treadmill guy, much younger. If Riley had to put a number to him, it’d be somewhere around Zachariah’s age. He was pretty well built, with lean muscles and a tall, athletic frame. He was doing stretches, presumably with the intention of lifting weights, and he was facing a mirrored wall that covered an entire end of the gym. In any other circumstances, she’d have brushed him off as any other gym rat admiring his own muscles, but the way he stared at the mirror suggested he wasn’t looking at himself but past himself, right at her.

It took a moment, but a spark of recognition flared in the back of her head. She knew him. She couldn’t put a face to the name, but she was certain she knew him from somewhere. Maybe the Agency? No, that didn’t sit quite right with her; it was close but not close enough. She’d seen him somewhere else, in a completely different setting, not in the Agency’s offices.

Riley shook herself mentally and decided to play it cool. She was just a woman in New Orleans on vacation; that was all. Sure, she had an arsenal of weapons in her suitcase upstairs and a smaller one in her gym bag nearby, but she was just being cautious. Besides, she could be wrong about the man on the other side of the gym. He could just vaguely resemble someone she once knew. Maybe he was looking at her because he thought she was attractive.

It wasn’t like that was beyond the realm of possibility, Riley thought as she returned her padded gloves to the battered black backpack she was using as a gym bag—Linus she’d named the bag a long time ago, only half-jokingly, after the Peanuts character that carried a blanket everywhere he went. She tugged her rolled-up yoga mat free from under the two pistols and the knife that lay inside. She wasn’t terribly unattractive—far from it, really, judging by how easily she caught the eyes of men. Maybe this guy had a thing for tiny, long-haired brunettes. She kept herself in shape, and she knew it showed.

Then again, she had to. She was, after all, one of the best assassins that worked for the United States government.

Or she used to be, anyway.

It had all started about a month ago, when she’d been recruited into a secret program called the Agency for the Monitoring and Control of Unnatural Beings, or The Unnaturals, as everyone involved tended to call it. As she dropped her mat and started her initial stretches, she recalled all the events that had resulted from that transfer so far: the battle with vampires, of all things; her newfound powers, though she still hadn’t begun to process the implications that accompanied them; the head-on tussle with a fallen angel that had possessed her new boss, Ashton Miller; and the discovery that the director of the Agency, Damon Hartley, was her biological father and her handler at The Unnaturals, Zachariah Lawrence, her brother. As she slid into cat pose, she wondered if her family dynamic could get any weirder.

Riley tore her thoughts away from the crap that had been enveloping her life lately and discreetly glanced up at the men in the gym as she pushed up into a plank. The man on the treadmill had left, but the younger one still remained; he was working the leg press and, just as she suspected, was still staring at her. She raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze challengingly.

Some reason you keep staring at me? she asked, shifting into cobra pose without tilting her head too far back so she could keep her eyes on him.

He pushed the leg press up one more time, let it down slowly, and climbed off the machine. You look like someone I knew once, he told her, striding to the chin-up bar. Someone I haven’t seen in years.

That was such a cop-out answer that Riley wasn’t sure what to do with it. She shifted from cobra back to plank and said, That was vague. How will you know I’m this mystery girl unless you tell me her name?

I think she knows what it is already, he said, and then suddenly he had a pistol in his hand, aimed right at her. Riley dropped from plank, tucking and rolling forward. This put her within reach of her backpack, and she shoved her hand into its depths and snatched one of her pistols out, all in the time it took her to roll up into a kneeling position, her left knee digging into her thin yoga mat, her right foot flat on the floor, her pistol aimed back at the man. She completed this move in less than four seconds, and in the back of her mind, she could hear the slow clapping of her former handler, Brandon Hall, and his sardonic voice saying, Well done, Miss Walker. She scowled and shoved it aside, barking out, Who the hell are you?

I’m surprised you don’t recognize me, Miss Walker, the man said. His stance was firm, his pistol unwavering. His posture spoke of extensive training; he stood like an agent.

Shit.

Or is it Miss Hartley these days? he continued, and her stomach clenched. It’s so hard to keep up when you’re out of the loop.

Who the hell are you? Riley repeated. Answer the question this time.

Or?

Or I’ll introduce you to the business end of a bullet, she snapped. I have no problem with changing hotels.

The man stared at her for a long minute, like he was assessing the veracity of the statement. Then he shifted the pistol away from her, redirecting its aim to the ceiling, finger away from the trigger and the gun balanced on the web between his thumb and forefinger.

"Shit, you really don’t remember me," he said, and he actually sounded like that had hurt his feelings.

Something about the way he said that turned the spark that had kicked up in the back of Riley’s mind into a flame. She lowered her own pistol and slowly stood, her eyes wide. Jesus Christ, she said out loud.

Almost, but not quite, he joked, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. Though I’m pretty sure you’re thinking I’ve come back from the dead right now.

Riley wanted to slap the grin off his face. She didn’t, though, because a name had finally surfaced in her mind, and if she didn’t say it out loud, she was going to explode.

Jax Tremblay, she said.

He opened his arms wide, the pistol dangling loosely from his hand. One and the same, he confirmed.

But…you’re dead, Riley said. "You are dead. I saw you die."

Sometimes things aren’t what they seem, Jax said, sitting on the end of a weight bench.

Riley hadn’t been kidding when she said she remembered seeing Jax die. She’d been there, three years ago, when her former partner Kevin Anderson had pulled the trigger and Jax had fallen. It had been the very first assignment she and Kevin had taken together, which was probably the only reason she remembered it, and she hadn’t known that Jax was an agent. Kevin had fired the shot, and he never missed; he’d always prided himself on putting a bullet in the exact spot he wanted it to go. She couldn’t remember why they were supposed to hunt Jax down and kill him. It was no wonder she hadn’t recognized him right away, though—once the target was dead, she usually pushed the assignment out of her mind.

Besides, he looked subtly different than he had all those years ago. He’d made attempts to change his overall appearance to blend in better with New Orleans crowds. Where before, she’d always seen him dressed in business wear that made him resemble an accountant, now he looked like he was more at home in casual; his blond hair had gotten longer and shaggier than its previous professional cut. From what she’d seen of the people who swarmed over NOLA, she thought he’d succeeded admirably in becoming just another one of the general population.

What are you doing in New Orleans? she asked. She lowered herself to a knee again and carefully set her pistol back inside Linus the backpack.

I live here, Jax said. It’s where I went to ground after Kevin helped me orchestrate the whole fake-my-death thing.

Fake your death? she repeated.

Yeah, he said, raising an eyebrow. Obviously I faked it, or I wouldn’t be here. Have you hit your head recently or something? You seem a little out of sorts.

No, not lately, she said dismissively. But…how the hell did you know I was here?

Jax shrugged. The Network, he said, and the way he pronounced the name suggested a capital N. The rumor mill says you’ve been labeled rogue. If so, welcome to the club.

There’s a club? Riley asked before she could stop herself.

Oh yeah, and I’m the recruiter, he said with a laugh, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. I was actually asked to track you down and talk you into the fold, see if you’d join us.

I don’t know, she said. A sense of unease tried to surface in her gut. What would he do if she rejected him outright? She wished she hadn’t put her pistol away. She decided to go with a diplomatic approach, something she didn’t use very often but would hopefully work in this situation. "Look, I’m not sure what you and your buddies have going on, but honestly, I’m not in a position to get involved. I have a lot on my plate right now."

I’m sure you do, Jax agreed. Look, I’m not supposed to help agents who aren’t in the Network, rogue or not, but…keep your eyes open.

What for? she asked, watching as he stood and ran his hands through his hair.

Word is that you’ve been followed to New Orleans, he warned her. And not by anyone who has your best interests at heart. Hell, considering his past behaviors, I have no doubt he’s here with very, very bad intentions.

Who?

Brandon Hall, he said. You know, the guy who declared you rogue. She gave him a surprised look, and he chuckled. What, you think we don’t have ways to read Agency email anymore? One of my men spotted him in Baton Rouge two days ago. Obviously, he hasn’t found you quite yet, but if I could find you as easily as I did, then it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that Brandon could track you down just as easily.

Why are you helping me?

Jax took a step toward her, and her calf muscles tightened, like her legs wanted to play gazelle and carry her away from him against her will. He stopped outside of arms’ reach and studied her closely before saying, I’ve always liked you, Riley. You’ve got this take-no-shit fire about you that I’ve always admired from afar. It’d be a shame to see that fire get extinguished over some of Brandon’s stupid political bullshit. He held out, of all things, a business card, pinned between his forefinger and middle finger. Riley hesitated before taking it. It was plain, with no typeface, just the handwritten word Jax and a phone number. If you run into any trouble that you need help with—beyond what Scott Hunter can give you—don’t hesitate to give me a call.

Riley couldn’t say she was surprised that Jax knew Scott was here with her—he was obviously incredibly good at his job—but his sudden mention of the man threw her brain off track. She folded the card in half and palmed it. I’ll think about it, she said, her voice carefully neutral.

You do that, Jax said. Be careful, Riley. He didn’t wait for her reply. He turned his back and collected his belongings then left.

Riley stood there for a long moment, the chill from the gym’s air conditioning settling into her skin, the edge of the business card pressing into her palm. She wondered how the hell she’d had this sort of luck, that she’d run into a potential ally in the most random of places.

Scott Hunter woke up to the sound of running water and a female voice singing terribly off key, the vocals amplified by the tiles in the bathroom. He shifted in an unfamiliar bed against unfamiliar sheets and buried his head underneath an unfamiliar pillow. This was the seventh time in the past two weeks that he’d been woken up like this, bellowed into the conscious world by out-of-tune a cappella songs and disoriented by where he was.

As the volume of the woman’s voice escalated into a crescendo, singing something about being halfway there and living on prayers, Scott threw the pillow off his head and gave up trying to go back to sleep. It just wasn’t going to happen with Riley singing in the shower.

New Orleans, he remembered, levering himself into a sitting position with his left hand, ignoring the thump of a book that had been laying on his chest as it tumbled to the floor. They were in New Orleans, Louisiana. That had been Riley’s pick, naturally, but he hadn’t minded. He hadn’t been to New Orleans in years—as an agent, he hadn’t been in the field Stateside very often—and it had changed drastically since then. The scars of Hurricane Katrina still lingered on the city, but it was slowly, gingerly, inch by inch, crawling out of the damage from the murky floodwaters and trying to regain its extravagance and grandeur.

Speaking of extravagance, Riley had decided that a $500-a-night suite at the Hotel Monteleone was the ideal place for them to lay low while she sorted through her familial issues. This wasn’t his idea of laying low. But it wasn’t his money, either, and ultimately, he didn’t have a problem staying in an expensive hotel on someone else’s dime. Besides, the bar and restaurant downstairs were superb. If she wanted to pay for them to stay in a hotel like this, that was all on her.

And he wasn’t going to lie and say it wasn’t pleasant to have the opportunity to stop, relax, and decompress after the last two scuffles he’d been involved in. Vampires and demons. He still couldn’t believe the things he’d seen, done, and killed over the past couple of weeks. It had barely been three weeks since he’d first met Riley, since he’d been dumped headfirst into the abject terror that was working in The Unnaturals sector of the Agency. The terror he could deal with. He’d felt varying degrees of it through the course of his regular assignments. Riley, though? Some days, he just wasn’t sure.

He’d survived the scuffle with the vampires without a scratch, and the fight with the demons had left him walking away with a broken right wrist, which had been promptly swathed in a cast in an Alabama hospital. Riley had spent the time since they’d left Tuscaloosa pestering him to let her draw on the cast with permanent markers—she’d even purchased a multipack of Sharpies in a rainbow of colors from a Walmart in Baton Rouge explicitly for that purpose—but he’d been resistant so far. It just seemed like such a high school thing to do.

Riley hadn’t been quite so lucky in their prior engagements, though. She’d gotten the shit kicked out of her twice, courtesy of her penchant for diving feet-first into trouble without stopping to take a look at where she’d land. That had resulted in two lines of stitches in her side. Not to mention the scratches, the cuts, the scrapes, and the odd side effects she dealt with after opening the box they’d stolen from Brandon Hall—who had, in turn, stolen it from the Smithsonian.

Her eyes weren’t brown anymore, but gold. And not gold like hazel-yellow, either. Gold like sunlight. Yellow like a cat’s eyes. It was disconcerting looking her in the eyes for any length of time. It gave Scott the odd sensation that she was looking right at his soul.

And that wasn’t taking her hands into consideration. Her palms were marred, covered in an odd red spiral pattern that started in the center of her palms and wound its way around and around until both of them were covered, and it’d begun to inch up her arms, making its way to a spot just above her wrists. And the marks weren’t just there for decoration, either. It seemed that something ancient and powerful had established itself inside Riley with the appearance of those markings, something that charred the skin of those who were possessed, that exploded outward in a shockwave of power that blasted everything within its radius clear of Riley. It was, in a nutshell, strange. But it had gotten them out of their last misadventure alive, and he figured at least it was useful for something.

Though he had to wonder when his life had become the stuff of horror movies.

The water in the bathroom shut off, though the singing continued. Now Riley was harping about loaded six-strings on her back. Scott groaned and shoved the blankets off himself, climbing out of bed with a stagger and a roll of his shoulders. He snagged a t-shirt off the lounge chair in the corner by the windows, sniffed it, then pulled it on. As he padded across the room to get a bottle of water from the supplies they’d bought at Walmart, the bathroom door swung open, and Riley strolled out, wrapped only in a towel, her dark hair bundled up in a towel turban. Scott didn’t bother turning away. It spoke to how comfortable they’d become around each other that, after two weeks on the road, he barely even blinked when she did stuff like that anymore.

Good morning, sleepyhead, Riley greeted, her voice impossibly cheerful. Despite the perkiness of her voice, the words sounded tight, forced. He almost asked about it, but he opted to stay silent as she made a beeline for the suitcase on the luggage rack near the bed. She flipped the lid open and rummaged through it, tossing articles of clothing onto the bed. I thought you were going to sleep the day away.

What? Scott glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s only eight-thirty.

Yeah, and I’ve been up since five, she said. "The gym here is amazing."

You woke up at five to go to the gym?

Hey, I’ve got to keep this fine body hot somehow, don’t I? she teased.

Scott wasn’t fazed by her teasing; she did it too often for it to really affect him anymore. Okay, but…you went by yourself? Why didn’t you try to wake me up?

I did. You muttered something about a horse and went back to sleep.

Oh, the hell I did.

Riley wandered up to him and gently patted him on the cheek. You’re right. You didn’t say horse. You said pony.

Scott rolled his eyes and decided to change the subject, even as his body took notice of how close Riley stood to him. He could smell her shampoo and body wash without even trying. Did you have a nice shower? Damn it, brain. What the hell sort of question was that?

Unbelievably, she said perkily, moving away from him and taking the scent of her body wash with her. He almost missed it the moment the scent of strawberries was gone. I can’t get over how much I adore the showerheads here. This is one of the only hotels I’ve ever been in where the water pressure isn’t the equivalent of someone peeing gently on your head.

Scott raised an eyebrow and cracked open his water bottle, an awkward process since he had to do it one handed. I sincerely hope you are talking metaphorically and not from experience.

Riley laughed and gathered her clothes from the bed, moving back to the bathroom. She left the door open as she dressed. That was a step too far for Scott, so he made a point of turning his back. He figured that would be way too much for his brain to handle. Is there anything in particular you want to do today? she asked, raising her voice to be heard in the bedroom.

I don’t really care, he admitted. He started the arduous task of opening a bottle of non-narcotic prescription painkillers with one hand. Damn the man who invented childproof packaging. "This is your little vacation, remember? When she didn’t respond, he added, Though whatever you choose, as long as it involves food, I’m happy." He lost his grip on the pill bottle, and it tumbled to the floor, the pills rattling as the bottle rolled along the carpet. He wore and went after it.

So you wouldn’t have any sort of objection to, say, walking to Jackson Square? she asked.

What’s in Jackson Square?

Chicory coffee, Riley said. She emerged from the bathroom, barefoot, drying her long, dark hair with a towel. And, of course, beignets. Because you can’t go to Jackson Square without eating some beignets.

Always with the food, huh? Scott commented, smiling.

Hey, you were the one who said you were hungry!

True, he acknowledged. He popped his painkiller in his mouth and took a deep swig of water to wash it down. I wasn’t expecting you to suggest sweets for breakfast, though. I was expecting pancakes and bacon or biscuits and sausage gravy like we got at that diner a few days ago. Those biscuits had been damn good, and he wouldn’t have minded having them for breakfast again.

I don’t know that I’d consider beignets sweets, Riley said, her tone thoughtful. She tossed her towel onto the end of the bed and pulled a comb out of her back pocket, working it through her hair from ends to roots. They’re more like…doughnuts.

Scott snorted. Doughnuts covered in copious amounts of powdered sugar.

What’s wrong with that? she asked. It isn’t like we have to worry about calories, not with our jobs. Besides, we’ll burn part of it off before we even get there.

Sounds like you’ve already thought this through.

It’s the way women work. We use logic and reason to excuse ourselves into eating junk food, she quipped.

Scott laughed and went to the nightstand, picking up the holstered pistol he’d offloaded there the night before. He tried to fasten it to his belt and failed miserably, so Riley moved to help him, buckling it on for him.

So we’re walking there, then? he asked, struggling to keep his brain focused on the conversation and away from how close Riley’s hands were to a certain part of his anatomy. The scent of strawberries emanating from her hair made it almost impossible.

Why not? she said. Traffic around here is a logistical nightmare this time of morning. And it’s only about half a mile.

"Walking is a logistical nightmare," he retorted.

Riley grinned. Oh, come on, you like a challenge, she said. She fastened her own weapons to her belt and dug into her suitcase again, coming out with extra magazines of ammunition. She tucked them into her pockets, and then they both shrugged on short-sleeved, button-up shirts to cover the weapons so they weren’t obvious. They had FBI badges—fakes, the same ones Damon Hartley had given them during the demon problem in Alabama—as cover, so Scott wasn’t terribly worried about the local police giving them much trouble. Regardless, there was no sense parading exposed weaponry around in front of civilians.

So are we sufficiently armed enough to go to breakfast? Scott asked.

Almost, Riley said, and she pulled a massive knife that couldn’t possibly have been legal out of her suitcase, along with a pair of socks. She sat down and slid on her socks and shoes then hiked her pant leg up and strapped the sheath around her calf. Now I’m ready, she announced, standing. She grabbed her black backpack—he still refused to call the thing Linus like she did—and draped it on her shoulder.

You are something else, Scott commented, shaking his head. Then they left the hotel to start their walk to Riley’s chosen breakfast place.

The shrill ringing of his cell phone startled Zachariah awake. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, waiting through two more rings before the phone fell silent. He breathed in deeply once, twice, then turned his head slowly to the left, like he was worried he’d startle a wild animal.

Ashton Miller laid beside him, pale and wan, his eye sporting the mother of all dark circles under it. His brown hair was rumpled, and he looked exhausted. Clearly, he hadn’t slept—again—and it was showing. He’d hardly rested in the past two weeks, not since he’d been freed from possession by a fallen angel named Ananael. He’d barely been out of bed during that time, either, except for the occasional trip to the bathroom or to get a bottle of water.

Good morning, Zachariah murmured, keeping his voice low.

Ashton blinked, slowly, but didn’t respond.

Zachariah’s cell phone started ringing again, the vibration making the device dance across the nightstand’s tabletop. He growled under his breath and rolled over, stretching for the phone and scooping it off the nightstand. He squinted at the screen, and his growl became a groan as he read the words Damon Hartley on the caller ID. Oh, son of a bitch, he said. "Can you just not leave us alone?" He didn’t dare say that directly to Damon, though. He’d probably get his ass handed to him if he dared. With one last glance at Ashton’s silent form, he answered the call.

"Good morning, Zachariah," his father’s voice said in his ear.

"Yeah, it was a good morning, until you called and ruined it," Zachariah replied, not entirely truthfully.

"What’s crawled up your ass this morning?"

I’m sure you already know the answer to that question, he said.

There was silence on the line. Zachariah kept his mouth firmly shut. He wasn’t going to be the one to speak first; he was, overall, still too angry. When Damon recruited him into a life as dangerous as the one he lived in and waited until he was thoroughly entrenched in said life to tell him, Oh, hey, I’m your biological father; your mother and I put you up for adoption when you were an infant for your own safety, well, it was enough to put anyone in a foul mood.

Finally, Damon cleared his throat and asked, "Do you happen to be busy?"

Actually, I’m still in bed, Zachariah said.

"Ashton?"

Still the same.

"Give him time, Damon said. He’s been through something that I imagine is significantly traumatizing."

You don’t have to tell me that.

Another silence descended.

Zachariah opted to break it this time, in the interest of expediency. I’m assuming you have a reason for calling me.

"Actually, yes, Damon said. Angelique Rousseau is back at work."

Good for her, he muttered. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. She’d saved Ashton’s life at the risk of her own, and he could never thank her enough for that. It was just that he was too emotionally exhausted to muster up enough care to sound enthusiastic right now.

"She’s dying to get back into the field, Damon continued, ignoring what he’d said. Considering how shorthanded we are in your division at the moment, I’ve agreed to it with conditions."

What sort of conditions?

"She can only do investigatory work, nothing active in the field, Damon said. In other words, no fighting. But she’s a superior investigator, and I don’t want her talents to go to waste while she’s waiting to be cleared as fully recovered."

This is wonderful and all, but what does it have to do with why you’re calling me?

"I want you to partner up with her until she’s fully healed."

No.

"I’m not asking you, Damon said. It’s an order."

Someone has to stay here with Ash, Zachariah said. He’s not in a good place. You said that yourself. Hell, I’m not in a good place, either, he thought. You can’t expect me to leave him here alone.

"You’re right, Damon conceded. I’ll come over there personally and hang out with him until you two clear up from where you’re heading."

Zachariah hesitated. His mind filled with images of Damon in his apartment, browsing through his belongings, poking around in his dresser drawers, examining the food in his refrigerator… The thought was enough to make him nauseous. He couldn’t even imagine what sorts of judgment Damon would pass on him and Ashton and their lifestyle based on what he found in his home. I don’t think that’s a good idea, he said uneasily. Maybe you need to find someone else to accompany Angelique.

"You’re going with Angelique," Damon said in a way that suggested he’d decided and that his decision was final.

What’s so important, anyway?

"There’s been a report of a burned body found near Meridian Hill Park, Damon said. A young female. The call came in early this morning. A couple found her at five a.m. while they were out jogging."

Who is insane enough to get up at five in the morning to go jogging? Zachariah muttered. He rubbed his face and fought off a yawn, the mention of the early time of day reminding him of how tired he was.

"Apparently, the two joggers who had the misfortune of finding a body, Damon said. Shut up and let me finish. The girl doesn’t appear to have been killed and burned there. It looks like it might be a dump site."

What does this have to do with The Unnaturals?

"The timing is odd. I want you and Angelique to check it out and make sure it isn’t related to anything that’s been going on," Damon said.

Zachariah sighed and sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. When will you be here?

"In just a few minutes, he said. I’m about five blocks away. Do you still have those extra parking spaces in the garage?"

Never stopped paying for them, he said.

"Good. I’ll be there shortly."

Zachariah hung up and tossed the phone on the nightstand then looked at Ashton again. The man hadn’t budged during the entirety of his conversation with Damon. He crawled back onto the bed to get closer to him, kneeling beside him and gently brushing his fingers through his hair. I wish you’d snap out of it already, he said softly. I know what happened was bad, and I know it’s really messing with your head, but you’re leaving me out in the cold here, and you know how much I hate that.

A flicker of acknowledgment, small but there, flitted through Ashton’s eye as he turned it onto Zachariah and then quickly away.

Zachariah couldn’t stop the smile that crossed his lips. I knew you were in there somewhere, he murmured, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. "I’ll cut you a deal. I’ve got to go out on something. Damon’s orders, of course. He’ll be here shortly to sit with you while