Shadow of doubt the pote.., p.3
Shadow of Doubt (The Potentate of Atlanta Book 1), page 3
“The POA is big into assigning homework. I watched footage from the Siege of Savannah.”
Fifteen months ago, vampires had seized the city and held it for the better part of a week. Gwyllgi had fought alongside necromancers to regain control and stomp out the vampire uprising. Midas had missed the action, but he had been present during the initial stages of the rebuilding process, lending a hand to his sister and her newly established pack.
I really had watched the video as part of an assignment on how to secure Atlanta against a similar attack, so it wasn’t a total lie. Even if I had seen Midas shift in person, on more than one occasion.
Nodding, he seemed to accept that. “What did you think?”
He meant what did I think of Midas, of gwyllgi in their natural form, but I faked misunderstanding. “The siege was long and bloody but not half as bad as it could have been.”
Ford narrowed his eyes on me, clearly not fooled, but he didn’t push me for a real answer.
“I should go.” I pointed out the sign near his bumper. “No parking zone, remember?”
“I’ll give you a holler tomorrow.”
“Works for me.”
I slid out of the cab and waited on the sidewalk until he drove off before skirting the front entrance, and the regular nighttime gwyllgi doorman who always eyed me with distrust, to slip down the alley between buildings. I wasn’t kidding about not tempting fate. I kept to myself as much as possible to avoid giving myself away.
That meant avoiding the doormen, the lobby, the elevators, and common areas where I would establish a scent trail over time that anyone could follow straight to me. Using the fire escape to reach my apartment was safer with warm summer rains and hot breezes erasing the buildup before it seeped into the cracks and stuck.
“What are you doing back here?”
Midas.
Instincts honed over a lifetime warned me to hunch away from the snap of his anger, from the certainty pain would follow, but I didn’t take hits anymore, not from anyone, and so I straightened my shoulders. “Going home.”
“Hadley,” he said, the rasp in his voice going soft. “I don’t hurt women.”
Fists balling at my sides, I hated how easily he read weakness in me. “I never said you did.”
“No, you just recoiled like you were waiting for a slap to land.” He considered me. “Or a fist.”
Playing it off as a misunderstanding, I shrugged. “Hazards of the job.”
“That’s not what I—” He shut his eyes, but his lips kept moving as he counted to ten under his breath. Who routinely annoyed him enough that he had adopted such a coping mechanism? “Please use the front door from now on. The fire escape is for emergencies, not for cardio.”
“I’ve been taking the stairs for the past year, and the supports have yet to pry free of the building, crash to the asphalt, and put me in an early grave. I don’t see the problem.” I spun the interrogation around on him. “What are you doing here?”
“Notifying next of kin.”
A grimace twisted my lips before I could smooth them, but he only watched my mouth.
Maybe I had a sour cream mustache from that travesty of a taco?
“You didn’t mention you knew the victim,” I said casually. “That might have been helpful.”
“She’s pack,” he replied simply.
Meaning Ford had known her too, and he had kept just as silent while I stupidly followed procedure and waited to see if the cleaners identified her based on her fingerprints. He had handled me like a pro, and I had bought into his aww shucks routine without blinking because he was so darn likeable.
Credit where credit was due. Or, in this case, blame. I was the one who made the verbal report to Bishop as fast as I could rattle off the pertinent details, and I did it without input from the pack reps. All in order to avoid Midas’s notice, which I had attracted anyway.
The shadow I cast across the wall slow clapped for me until I wanted to punch the bricks where his face ought to be. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Nothing will make this easier for her mother, but it will help if I’m the one who delivers the news.” He might have tried to hide his short, quick breaths, but the flare of his nostrils drew my eye. “Wounded predators don’t respond well to other predators in their dens.”
“I understand.”
Surprise flitted through his impossibly blue eyes, which I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been gazing into them again. Likely that’s why he let it show. Most folks had more sense than to make eye contact with him.
“No false modesty?” He canted his head, looked his fill. “No argument against your predatory nature?”
“This job requires a predatory nature.”
“True.”
Heels clicked on pavement, and a woman’s tremulous voice called down the alley, “Midas?”
“On my way, Bonnie.” He lingered with me a moment longer. “If any staff member has threatened you, propositioned you, or otherwise made you feel uncomfortable in your own home, you can tell me.”
As tempting as it was to throw him off my scent by blaming my anxiety around him on another gwyllgi, I couldn’t toss someone else under the bus. “It’s not like that.”
“Midas?” the woman tried again, her voice going impossibly softer. “The Randalls are waiting.”
“I have to go.” He blasted out a sigh. “The victim was Shonda Randall, by the way.”
“Thanks for that.” I could tell this was costing him, so I paid a little back. “For giving me a chance.”
“You’re welcome.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The offer stands.”
“Which offer is that?”
“You can come to me if you have any problems at the Faraday.”
“I can manage.”
A slight dent appeared in his right cheek a more charitable woman might call a dimple. “I’m sure you can.”
He turned and started toward the slip of a woman doing her best not to cower when he got close.
“Come on, Bon.” He didn’t reach out, didn’t touch her, and they both seemed relieved to avoid the contact.
Maybe I was misremembering the chapters I read on gwyllgi as part of my training, but I could have sworn this pack, thanks to their distant warg ancestry, were big on touch as a means of reaffirming pack bonds.
Since it was none of my business who rated skin privileges and who didn’t, I tabled my curiosity and hit the stairs.
I lived two stories up, which suited me fine. High enough to easily defend but low enough to jump if I had no other choice. Why yes, those were the selling points the potentate mentioned before showing me to my shoebox—I mean, apartment.
The intricate exterior lock on the window was my doing. Since I only used the front door when accepting deliveries, I considered this my primary entrance and locked it behind me every time I left. There was no point, really, considering how tight security was at the Faraday. Yet another reason for its sky-high rent and exclusivity. I never could have afforded this address without the potentate, who lived several floors above me, footing the bill as a thinly veiled attempt at keeping tabs on me via job perk. Not that I was complaining. Free is free.
Sadly, the POA’s generosity hadn’t extended to a decorating budget, so I managed to furnish it for pennies since that’s all I had to rub together these days.
The layout was a perfect cube. As with most efficiency apartments, it came without interior walls. The front door, which opened onto the hall, stood opposite the single window I used to come and go. The other door, on my left, led to the extravagant, if compact, bathroom. The microkitchen managed to fit everything a girl needed to survive and sat on my right, and the dining table where I sometimes ate but mostly sewed was on my left. The living room/bedroom occupied the corner right of the front door.
The futon where I spent my days was a Vampslist find and cost me fifty bucks after delivery. I could have traded for it in blood, but that was too risky. The mattress, such as it was, had been wrapped in cotton batting until it was cloudlike, and slipcovered in lavender fabric. Pillows in every pastel color imaginable covered it from head to toe, and most nights I collapsed face-first into them without bothering with underwear, let alone pajamas.
With a little help from a staple gun, a dollar hula-hoop, and Velcro hanging strips, I had created a wall-mounted canopy in complementary shades whose draping lengths could be tied back when I was watching TV or pulled closed against the sun when I was ready for bed.
With yards of fabric left, I’d made another one using the light fixture in the center of the room as my starting point. From there, the material fanned out to cover the entire ceiling, spilled down the otherwise white walls, and left behind a splash of color and texture before pooling on the polished concrete floor.
All in all, it was very Arabian Nights, if I do say so myself, though most of that was to blame on my day job rather than personal taste.
Four days after moving to Atlanta, in order to establish my new identity, who was sorely lacking in credit scores among other things the average person cultivated over a lifetime, I invested a whopping two-thirds of my life savings in a Peachy Keen Sheets franchise I ran out of a kiosk at Haywood Square, a Society-owned mall, funding my new life with my old one. As my apartment attested to, the freebies had to go somewhere.
Plus, it was a great excuse to put the MBA I had worked my butt off earning in my past life to good use.
Most importantly, being my own boss gave me the flexibility to close shop when my real job required me to put in extra hours. That was probably the reason I didn’t make as much selling sheets as I had hoped, but what can you do? The stipend I was paid as the POA’s apprentice was enough to keep me solvent. I could make it another year on the cheap. Then it was make-it-or-break-it time with this gig. Either I would be elected as Potentate of Atlanta or—
No.
There was no or.
I had no backup plan.
I would be the next Potentate of Atlanta.
Full stop.
Since Ford had been nice enough to give me a lift, I had time to watch the last movie in the Robot Space Tentacles trilogy, but working my first solo crime scene had wiped me out, and dealing with Midas—twice in one night—had left me drained and a little spooked.
After a shower scalded off the night’s miseries, I skipped the pajamas and flopped naked on the futon without bothering to lower it. Honestly, I reserved the bed setting for off days and other special occasions. Otherwise, I was usually too tired to make all the heave-hoing worthwhile.
The massive screen extending from the wall across from me on its full-tilt mount was my one splurge, a fifty-inch UHDTV with soundbar. I might not have the gumption to sit through the whole feature, but I could let it lull me to sleep. And I did. Like the dead.
Right up until a brisk knock sent me rolling out of bed with a muttered curse, ready to gouge out the eyeballs of whoever expected me to put on pants at this hour. Surprise! I was tired, and I wasn’t putting in the effort. After wrapping a sheet around my torso, I opened the door with a squint for the bright hall lights.
Midas, whose eyes bore fresh shadows, said, “You need to get to Perkerson Park.”
Dread squeezed my heart in a merciless fist. I was in over my head and sinking fast. “Let me get dressed.”
Midas dipped his gaze to where my fist clutched the sheet then glanced away just as fast. “I’ll call Ford.”
“It won’t take but a minute,” I protested, shocked to find I had followed him out into the hall when he fled my seminudity. “Just wait.”
Without a backward glance, Midas left me standing with a fistful of sheet and hit the elevator.
“This is the job,” I reminded myself. “Sleep is never guaranteed.”
Urgent texts from Bishop yanked me out of bed a few days a week, and I hadn’t been half as grumpy about those times.
Ending the free show, I returned to my apartment to scrounge up jeans and a tee from the armoire I kept hidden behind the fabric draping the walls. About to pull on underwear, I wobbled off-balance when a second knock on the door startled me. Clutching my sheet, I rushed to answer it. “I thought you…left.”
Ford stood there, his eyes wearier than they had been, his clothes more rumpled, but he still found a smile for me after he noticed what I was wearing. He glanced away, but slower than Midas.
“Nah.” He jangled his keys. “I had to see Mrs. Randall. Shonda’s mom. She babysat two of my brothers.”
“I didn’t realize you knew the victim.” I bit my tongue to keep from reaming him out for not mentioning that, or the victim’s name, during our cozy ride. “Personally, I mean.”
“I didn’t really.” He bowed his head. “There was more of a chasm than gap in our ages.”
Having fae roots meant gwyllgi lived a long time. Necromancers averaged five hundred years or so, but it was believed that gwyllgi could clock two or three times that if dominance fights didn’t kill them first. The gap between Ford and his siblings could span decades or more.
“I’m sorry in any case.” I hitched my sheet up higher. “I’ll get dressed, and then we can go.”
“How did you…?” He flared his nostrils, and then his eyes held comprehension. “Midas told you.”
“Midas told me to go to Perkerson Park, not what was waiting there.”
“Take your time getting ready,” Ford said, eyeing the hallway with mild interest. “There’s no rush.”
No rush was code for no survivors. “I would invite you in but…”
“I’ve been in plenty of these units. Hard to keep modest without walls.”
At the rate I was flashing skin, I wouldn’t label modesty as one of my virtues. “I’ll be right back.”
After I shut the door, I dropped the sheet and pulled on fresh clothes. Since popcorn hadn’t happened, and the taco was best forgotten, I pocketed two individual baggies of the trail mix I whipped up once a week before joining Ford in the hall.
“Here you go.” I tossed him one then opened the second for myself. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”
Ford nodded his thanks then dug in. “What’s in this?”
“Pecans, almonds, cranberries, buttercrunch toffee covered in dark chocolate, and a pinch of sea salt.”
A slow whistle parted his lips. “Are you sure you should be eating beforehand?”
I cradled my bag to keep it out of his hands. “I notice it’s not slowing you down any.”
“I’m a hunter. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies, caused my fair share too.”
I had too, but I wasn’t in any hurry to admit my sins. Or share my chocolate. “I’ll manage.”
“All right.” He crunched his way through his entire stash before we hit the elevator, which I took as a compliment, then stuffed the trash in his pocket. “You ever been to Perkerson Park?”
“I stick to Piedmont.” I let him push the buttons, otherwise it would have been obvious I had to search for them. He didn’t need to know I could count my total number of elevator trips on one hand. “Perkerson’s near Capitol View, right?”
“Yeah, south of the BeltLine.”
“I didn’t realize how many parks Atlanta had until I moved here.”
“That’s why they call it a city in a forest.”
“That’s why the gwyllgi are so at home.”
“Who do you think fought to keep every inch of green space we have?” He snorted. “Humans?”
“Got beef with humans, huh?”
“Every ecologically minded species does, or they should.” He eyed me. “You’re descended from them?”
“Yep.” I hadn’t studied the Whitaker family tree enough to get specific, but there were human ancestors in their branches. “I’m Low Society.”
He pondered what that meant before it clicked for him. “Linus is High Society?”
“Yep again. His bloodline is one hundred percent dyed-in-the-wool necromancer.”
“Your line is half and half?”
“Originally, yes. Now? I can’t do that math without a genealogy chart and a calculator in front of me.”
“It’s the same for us. Our original line stems from a pack of gwyllgi who left Faerie to roam Earth. They interbred with wargs, and that’s where we came from, what gave us our toehold as a species, and the ability to argue with the powers that be we belonged here and not there.” We hit the lobby, and he led the way to the exit. “For a while, we kept that mix, but these days we’re true mutts. Gwyllgi, warg, human, and who knows what else.”
“That doesn’t divide your society?”
“Why should it?” He laughed. “Your Society are the separatists, not ours.”
He wasn’t wrong. The Society frowned on its necromancers mingling with other species. Vampires were the sole exception. They were our creations, and therefore immune to the unspoken rule.
Less our than their.
Only the High Society had enough magic to turn willing humans into vampires. Low Society practitioners didn’t have the juice to perform resuscitations.
All the magic in me I owed to Ambrose. Every last ounce. I had been born without a single drop.
And I had proven I was willing to go to any lengths to rectify that.
Careful what you wish for, you just might get it…and spend the rest of your long life regretting it.
“I didn’t mean to step on your toes,” Ford ventured when I didn’t offer a comeback.
“You didn’t.” I trailed him past the nightshift doorman, working yet another double. Just my luck. He narrowed his eyes on me, more suspicious than ever. Until Ford firmed his mouth. That was all it took for the doorman’s expression to relax several degrees. “I was thinking that must be nice. Not to have your worth decided by your blood.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He opened the passenger-side door on his truck, cupped my hips, and lifted me. “Gwyllgi decide everything by blood. Usually by how much they’re willing to spill to prove a point.”
Ford’s boost left me bouncing on the seat when he let go and made me curious how often he interacted with other species for him not to know his own strength. The pack’s heir might not be the only one who’d benefited from a recent promotion.
