The Shifters. Alexandra Sokoloff
Caitlin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the man in front of her. Bad wind. My dream. This morning. Her own feeling, her own words.
“That’s a little vague, isn’t it?” she retorted. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
He suddenly smiled at her, which made her even more suspicious. “I’ll be glad to. I’m Ryder Mallory.” He leaned forward and extended a huge hand across the table.
She looked at him frostily. Oh, you are, are you? As if I’m going to believe anything a shifter says. Shapeshifters changed names as often as they changed forms.
“And?” she demanded, keeping her hands to herself.
He left his hand extended, now daring her. She felt a reluctance to take it, but what better way to sense someone out, after all? She reached across the table and touched his palm, felt her hand engulfed in his, and an electric charge…which he was no doubt aware of, because he smiled slowly and tightened his grip on her hand, not hurting her, but not letting go, either, just letting her feel the strength and heat of him.
Flustered, she pulled back, trying to extricate herself… and after another moment he let her go, but not until she was completely aware that it was only by his choice that she was free.
“Now, what do you want?” she snapped, not realizing until after she spoke that it wasn’t exactly the question she’d wanted to ask.
He smiled knowingly at her. “We’ll get to that. But at the moment, we have bigger fish to fry.” His expression changed. “I’m a bounty hunter. I’m tracking.”
“Tracking what?”
His eyes turned serious, and Caitlin felt a chill in the candlelit darkness. “There’s a band of…entities on their way here. Extremely rogue. Extremely dangerous. I’ve been tracking them from Africa. I lost them in Antibes, but I’m guessing they’re coming here next. They ride the wind.”
The wind. Her bad feeling intensified, but she kept her tone skeptical. “What makes them so dangerous?”
“They weren’t born into bodies of their own, so they feel no obligation to anyone human.”
“No obligation to anyone? Sounds like shifters to me.”
Ryder Mallory assumed a mock-injured look. “That’s harsh. There are all kinds of us, you know.”
“And yet, there’s that one key element that distinguishes you all.”
“And that would be…?”
“Your inconstancy.”
He looked at her piercingly, and Caitlin suddenly felt naked, wanting to run. “Ah,” he said. “You’ve been hurt.”
“Isn’t that your nature?” she whipped back at him.
“Tell me who it is and I’ll take care of him,” he said, and he sounded completely serious.
“Why assume it’s a him?“ Her temper flared.
He fixed her with a look that set her insides on fire. “Some things are obvious without the cards, Keeper.”
“Who hired you?” she demanded, trying to get back on track.
His face suddenly closed off. “That’s confidential.”
“And why should I believe anything a shifter says?”
“That’s your job, isn’t it? To determine these things? You said you were good.” He held her gaze, and it was intimate in the small room, more intimate than she wanted it to be, enough to make her breath short.
She forced herself to focus, to keep her voice steady. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to look out for… entities. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”
“I’m at the Marie Claire.” It was a small, older hotel, just a few blocks away.
“And you know where to find me, obviously,” she said.
“I do.” There was a sensual promise in his voice that she didn’t want to acknowledge, so she just stared coldly.
“Then I think we’re done, here,” she said, and hoped it would be enough of a hint to get him out.
“It’s been a pleasure.” He rose to leave, and was about to exit through the velvet curtain, when he turned. “Good reading, by the way—in case I didn’t say.” He paused, with a slight smile. “Did I tell you I read cards, too?”
He reached for the deck still facedown on the table, fanned out the cards, and his hand hovered briefly before he reached casually and turned one over.
Caitlin stared down at it. The Lovers.
Ryder Mallory smiled into her eyes, a slow, infuriating smile.
“I’ll be in touch—Keeper.”
He brushed out through the purple curtain, and Caitlin stood, frozen, not breathing, until she heard the outer door open and close.
Then she jerked forward and swept the cards up into their silk wrapper, slammed the cupboard door on them and pushed out through the curtain.
The daylight of the shop was nearly blinding after the candlelit cocoon of the reading room, and Caitlin blinked to adjust. Her brain was roiling with confusion and anger.
She stalked behind the counter and grabbed for her cell phone, started punching the speed-dial for Fiona.
Then stopped, and forced herself to breathe. They didn’t believe you this morning, so what makes you think they would believe you now? She set the phone down, thinking. This time I’m going to do it right. Then she turned and walked to the front window, turned the Open sign to Closed, and hurried out the door.
Chapter 3
Caitlin hurried down the uneven cobblestone sidewalks of Royal. Air-conditioning blasted from the open doors, cooling the sidewalks enough to entice shoppers inside.
The wind, which had been quiet for most of the day, was picking up again, warm and gusting, swirling flurries of glittering dust up from the streets.
Bad wind, Caitlin thought again, and then was angry at herself for using the shapeshifter’s words, even though she’d said them first.
The Eighth District New Orleans Police Department was located in the heart of the Quarter, just four blocks away from the shop, and it and the courthouse took up two square city blocks all on their own. It was, Caitlin thought, probably the most magnificent police station in the country: a massive three-tiered white-and-gray-veined marble wedding cake of a building, with grand old magnolia trees in the yard and tall black wrought-iron fences. Even in such a formal setting, the mysterious beauty of New Orleans carried the day.
Tourists and locals alike were drawn to take rest on its sweeping marble steps, and could be found day and night, lounging back on their elbows, under the shade of blossoming magnolias, as street musicians and singers played to their captive and willing audience from the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
Caitlin hurried up the steps, past a group of Goth teenagers watching a couple of the boys on skateboards do whatever they called those flip things on the stairs.
Across the street, a saxophonist played a sultry version of “Georgia,” the notes enticingly full and sexy. Caitlin turned and glanced at him. The well-muscled Jamaican tipped his head to her as he played.
She turned and hurried up the stairs.
And on the sidewalk, concealed in his musician body, Ryder watched her, his lips wrapped around the mouthpiece of the horn.
This is interesting, he thought, as he lowered the sax, staring at the police station. He’d known back at the shop that the indifference the Keeper had been demonstrating