By the time they got Carson booked into the county jail on all those counts, Erica’s stomach was indeed beginning to sound like Clarence in a very bad mood. The fact that their prisoner had grown increasingly violent hadn’t helped. Jake had finally been forced to manifest his cat just to get him fingerprinted, booked, and into a cell.
It was 1:30 in the morning by the time Erica parked next to Jake’s cruiser in the restaurant’s parking lot. One of the few diners in Laurelton that was open 24/7, the Cauldron’s food was both delicious and reasonably priced. All of which made the place beloved of cops, partying teenagers, and drunks looking to sober up after the bars closed.
The long narrow building had brick walls painted white, the better to showcase an eye-catching mural celebrating Laurelton’s history that swirled across one wall. Revolutionary War hero William Laurel struck a heroic pose, musket in one hand; Colton Faraday stood beside one of his trains; and Laurel County’s BMW plant sprawled across manicured emerald grounds. Dancing sigils surrounded all three elements in shades of green, blue, and gold. The symbols weren’t just for show, either; magic glowed beneath the paint, a spell to attract hungry customers and put them in the mood to tip well afterward. The Arcanist who’d painted it had been damned good.
“I hope you don’t mind if I order an embarrassing amount of food. Working magic always makes me hungry.” Jake’s smile took on a sensual tilt that gave his words a note of double entendre as his eyes lingered on her mouth.
Erica swallowed, trying to fight her body’s vivid reaction to the thought of his hunger for anything. Especially me. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, I was famished even before I started slinging power around.”
Something in his smile triggered a memory of walking beside him during the war. She could almost taste the desert air, feel the weight of her body armor as she, Jake, Kurt, Dave, and Bobby hunted sorcerers through the Iraqi night. Their cat manifestations moved along with them, alert, utterly silent, the air almost pulsing with their magic, knowing that at any moment they could walk into a firefight or trigger a MEED -- Magically Enhanced Explosive Device.
Those nights had been the first time in her life Erica had felt accepted. Valued, instead of a freak suspected of striking a deal with the devil. Living her first eighteen years as an outcast had sucked. Going to war had been a small price to pay to get away from her self-righteous Norm neighbors.
Jake stepped ahead to open the door for her in one of those habitual gestures of southern gallantry his mother had drummed into his head. As Erica passed him, her gaze lingered on the span of broad shoulders that looked even wider in that bulletproof vest. Need heated her blood.
But then, she’d lusted for Jake even in full body armor, wearing the stink of dirt, blood, and combat sweat, his expression grim, his gold eyes alight with an adrenaline junky gleam…
The voice of common sense muttered a warning: This has epic fail written all over it. Kind of like stopping off at a bakery on the way home from a Weight Watchers meeting.
Just like a big piece of chocolate cake, Jake was both tempting and bad for her -- and Erica wasn’t likely to be terrific for him either. She and Bobby had done this dance, and it hadn’t ended well for either of them. If I had any sense, I’d go home.
But here she was -- staying. Idiot.
As they paused just inside the door, a twenty-something server bustled over, trim in the Cauldron’s white and green uniform, her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail with a green ribbon. She gave Jake an appreciative smile. “Just the two of you?”
“Right.” Jake flashed a hint of lady-killing dimple.
The woman’s gaze fell on the F on his uniform sleeve. Blue eyes widened. “Come… Come right this way.” She sounded nervous.
As they followed her toward a booth, Erica eyed her. Really? This is a Talent town. You need to get used to dealing with us.
The server --”Betty,” according to her name tag -- handed them a pair of laminated menus. As they slid onto opposing green-upholstered benches, she blurted, “Are you him? The Feral who fought the bear in Faraday Square?”
He shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “One of them.”
“My mother was there that day having lunch. She might’ve died if you hadn’t…” Breaking off, Betty clutched her menu pad to her chest. “May I… may I take a selfie? Mom will never believe I met you.”
“Sure.” Jake didn’t even blink, evidently no stranger to being treated like a celebrity.
The woman whipped her phone out of an apron pocket, sank to one knee beside the booth, and angled the cell to aim it at herself and Jake. Studying Betty’s aura, Erica realized she’d misread her. Judging by the swirl of pink pleasure, her nervousness was a product of hero-worship rather than fear.
Grinning, Betty bounced back to her feet. Gaze falling to the pentagram on Erica’s collar, she asked, “Were you there too?”
“Uh, no. I wasn’t a member of the department then.”
“Oh.” The server looked briefly disappointed, then slid the phone back into an apron pocket and pulled out a menu pad. “What can I get you two to drink?”
They both ordered water -- the last thing either needed at the end of a shift was caffeine. The waitress all but danced away in her excitement. Erica lifted a brow at Jake. “Do you get that a lot?”
“Enough.” His smile turned dry. “It can come in handy. You’d be surprised how often pissed-off people calm right down when I roll up. If they’re drunk or Human Heritage, they might give me some passive aggression, but that’s about it. Not many people try to pick fights once they spot the F patch.”
“Good to know the public has some sense of self-preservation.”
When Betty came back for their order carrying a single glass of water, another server accompanied her, also carrying a glass. He was a tall young man, his long, bony face bright with the excitement of someone meeting his hero. His nametag read “Shannon.”
Eyeing his aura, Erica realized he was a Talent. A Bard, based on the strong, glowing violet of his magic. Looked like he had a lot of ability -- the kind that would eventually lead to recording contracts and hordes of adoring fans.
“I hate to bother you,” Shannon said in a deep, beautiful voice that didn’t match his thoroughly ordinary face. Yep, definitely a Bard. She’d love to hear him sing. “But can I take a selfie?” His eyes flicked to her collar pin. “With both of you?”
“I wasn’t there,” Erica told him.
“But the sheriff hired you, so you must be pretty good.” The smile drained from his face. “And you’re keeping the rest of us safe.” The flat way he said it had her checking his aura again. The red of pain flowed through it like blood in the water. Somebody had been making the kid’s life hell.
For just a moment she was five years old again, and… Erica cut the thought off and forced a smile. “Of course I don’t mind.”
Shannon grinned like a boy and took the selfie, angling it and snapping off four shots.
“Somebody been giving you trouble?” Erica asked.
“Since last year, we’ve all been catching a lot of shit.” His smile a shade forced, he nodded and turned away. “I’ll let y’all eat. Thanks a lot. Have a nice night.”
The waitress watched him walk away. “Somebody painted a pentagram on his mom’s front door this morning. His neighbors are assholes.” She shook her head and took out her pad and pen. “Do y’all know what you want?”
Jake ordered a quadruple stack of pancakes with a loaded omelet -- he hadn’t been kidding about the caloric needs of Ferals. Erica made do with a double stack.
As the waitress hurried off to put in their order, Erica leaned back in the booth. “Bet that pentagram’s not the worst thing Shannon’s suffered lately.”
“Probably not. The town’s collective mood has grown ugly since the terrorists killed Kurt’s dad. Even my mom caught some of it, at least from the people who don’t consider her a hero’s mother.”
He looked so grim, Erica decided to cheer him up. “So how big a stick do you have to use?”
“Stick?”
“To beat the women off.” She tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Or do you just sacrifice your body for the good of Norm/Talent relations?”
“That’s me -- martyr to the cause.”
Erica smiled in pleasure at the flash of dimple she’d gotten out of him. This felt so… right. Giving each other gentle hell, the way they’d done on deployments.
What does it say about me that I felt more at home in a war zone? But life had seemed simpler then, and she’d had Bobby. Though sometimes that had been a mixed blessing…
Yeah, don’t go there. Erica cleared her throat. “So what the hell is going on with Sergeant Johnson?”
Jake drained his water as if it were a shot glass. “He wants to run for sheriff with the Humanist Party. Which means he thinks all Talents are closet terrorists. Or at least, he has to pretend he does.” He curled his upper lip in a snarl so impressive, it deserved fangs. “Kurt told that fucking bear Feral if he and his bitch Arcanist tried to work that spell, they were going to trigger a literal witch hunt. But noooo. They were convinced they could terrorize President Roth and Congress into leaving Talents alone.”
“It’s tough to intimidate a guy with the nuclear codes.”
“Which is why Congress passed that damned National Talent Registration Act. Exactly what the Fords were trying to discourage.” He shook his head. “And now Indigo’s dead, Virgil’s headed for death row, and the rest of us are glowing in the dark from the figurative fallout.”
Betty and Shannon reappeared carrying trays loaded down with their meal. Jake and Erica promptly tabled the discussion in favor of refueling.
Once her stomach was full, Erica said, “So Johnson hates us.”
“And he’s got friends.” Having demolished his pancakes, Jake went to work on the omelet. “There are four deputies that share his attitude toward Talents: Tom Green, Scott Clary, Mary Hampton, and Bob Martin. If you ever have one of them backing you up, you need to keep a closer eye on them than whatever asshole you’re dealing with.”
She frowned at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Are there a lot of Humanists in the department other than just those four? I’ve only been out of the academy a couple of months, but most of the guys have seemed pretty friendly to me.”
“They are.” Chewing a bite of omelet, Jake shrugged. “As far as I can tell, most deputies either like Talents, have Talented relatives -- which means they have some weak ability themselves -- or they’re neutral. Though I will admit, some Norm cops do give Talents a higher threat assessment than they would’ve last year.” He paused, chewing as he thought it over. “Then again, I’ve been giving Talents a higher threat assessment than I would have last year. Though I’m a hell of a lot more paranoid about Norms.”
“Not much most Norms can do to a Tooth Tank.”
“Oo-Rawr.” It was an old Corps joke, a variant on the Marines’ “Oorah.”
As if her reference to him had captured the lion’s attention, Clarence’s gold eyes appeared over his head, surrounded by softly glowing mane. It was hard to see the big cat in the restaurant’s bright light, but Erica could just make him out. He stretched his great head across the table until she felt the brush of ghostly whiskers against her face. Grinning, Erica extended both hands and gave him a vigorous scratch. From the corner of one eye, she saw a Norm diner stare as if wondering what the hell she was doing. He wouldn’t be able to see the lion at all, which was probably a good thing for his peace of mind.
She buttered a piece of toast and ate it, returning to the problem of Johnson and his Talent-hating cops. “If the sarge is such a problem, can we transfer to another shift?”
“Nope. Sheriff Gable assigned me to Alpha specifically to keep an eye on them. And I strongly suspect he wants you to watch my back.”
“So what the hell have these guys been doing, and why doesn’t the sheriff fire them for doing it?”
“Because Scott Clary’s brother-in-law is Gary Stoneman.”
Erica’s brows lifted. “The county council chair?”
“Yep. Six months ago, a handcuffed Talent tripped and fell into Clary’s fist. Three or four times. Gable was all set to suspend him, but Stoneman hinted he’d be a lot less supportive of the sheriff’s plan to give his deputies a five percent raise if Gable didn’t cut his in-law some slack. Gable wants me to see if I spot something outrageous enough that he can fire the lot of them without Stoneman retaliating.”
Erica grimaced and rubbed her hands over her face. “Jesus. What’s Johnson’s story?”
“He’s been with the sheriff’s office for thirty years -- he was a captain in the last administration, but he got demoted when Gable was elected.”
Ah. She considered that. Unlike police chiefs, sheriffs were elected officials. Traditionally, a new sheriff gave senior admin posts to his supporters, a bit like the president and his cabinet. Rank and file deputies up to sergeant weren’t affected, but lieutenants and above got shuffled around. “I’m surprised Johnson didn’t quit after a demotion like that.”
Jake shrugged as Betty stopped by to refill their water glasses. “Johnson’s too close to retirement. He wouldn’t be able to get hired anywhere else, and he’s got too much time in.” When Betty vanished with her pitcher, he continued, “So we’re stuck with him until and unless I can find proof he and his bunch are abusing Talents. Something beyond the petty crap they’ve been doing so far.”
“What kind of petty crap are we talking about?”
“Mostly beating up Talents who had too much to drink for ‘resisting arrest.’ Talents have also filed complaints about nasty comments, threats, trumped-up charges, even groping. Which would be reason enough to can at least a couple of them, but Clary’s bunch are too smart to do anything in front of witnesses with cell phones. As it is, we’ve got a lot of ‘he said, she said,’ stuff, which makes it almost impossible to bring charges.”
“But if they’re collecting that many complaints…”
“People make complaints all the time against cops. Hell, I’ve had them made against me, generally by some asshole who was outraged I’d dare arrest him for beating the fuck out of his wife.”
“Too bad about that asshole-free diet… What was the problem again?”
Straight-faced, he replied, “Gas.”
“Maybe you should consider Beano.”
As he chuckled, a soft, low rumble sounded, and Erica felt the sensation of a furry body butting against her legs. Never mind that there wasn’t enough room between her and the table; Clarence was only partly manifested. Most Arcanists wouldn’t have been able to detect him at all without closing their eyes, since the well-lit room would have overwhelmed his faint glow.
With another inquiring rumble, the lion laid his big, insubstantial head in her lap. She reached down and absently ran her hands through his mane, enjoying the ghostly brush of the thick, coarse strands against her palms. The effect was an illusion, of course, a product of her aura interacting with the blended one he and Jake produced.
Glancing up, she froze. Jake was watching her, heat and need so stark in his eyes, it reminded her that Clarence wasn’t the only one who could feel her caress. Hastily, Erica dropped her hand from the Familiar’s big, regal head.
Jake’s expression shuttered.
* * *
Jake watched in frustration as Erica retreated behind a mask of cool self-control. His hand tightened around his fork. Pain prickled his palm sharply enough to make him drop the utensil. When he glanced down, he saw four points of blood smeared over his skin. Damn it, manifested claws. It was never a good sign when he started doing that without intending to.
Erica’s chocolate brows flew up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He suppressed the urge to shake his stinging hand, knowing he’d fling blood everywhere. The punctures aren’t that bad, but it’d serve me right if they were. Moron.
RRrroorr, Clarence told him. Translation: Let me handle this. Through their bond, he felt his Familiar butt his big head against Erica’s chest, rolling his jaw across her breasts. Scent marking her.
For a moment it seemed Jake could feel the soft mounds pressed against his own face, and yearning hit him so hard he had to lower his gaze to his plate. He’d never touched her like that, but he’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to.
They all had. Jake, Bobby, Dave Frost and Kurt Briggs, otherwise known as Arcane Corps Whiskey Team. Or, as Dave called them, “Whisker Team.”
He vividly remembered the day he’d met her, five years ago at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan. They’d all gaped like idiots. Erica made even camo look good. Tall and long-legged, she had full breasts that rounded her tan T-shirt with intriguing curves. Her grip had felt smooth and surprisingly strong as she shook his hand, flashing a brilliant smile. “Glad to be here.”
Dave had shouldered him aside, grinning, toothy as his Familiar. “Not as glad as we are to have you.”
From then on, the members of Whisker had vied like smitten twelve-year-olds for her attention. She’d kept her distance from them all, refusing to flirt, silently demanding to be treated as a fellow soldier rather than a woman.
It wasn’t until they watched her disarm a MEED one afternoon on patrol that they’d learned she was a hell of a lot more than a pretty face.
Dressed in a seventy-five pound bomb suit that made her look like a robot in a ‘50s monster flick, Erica lumbered over to the mine Jake had scented buried in the sand. A Caliphate sorcerer had inscribed complex magical symbols over its case designed to trigger and amplify the MEED’s Semtex explosives.
Three months before, the team’s previous Arc had been killed trying to disarm a booby trap just like it. They’d all watched in tense silence as she’d knelt in the clumsy armored suit, only her pale, lovely hands bare. You couldn’t work magic in armored gloves, and disarming a MEED called for a delicate touch.
Staring through closed lids, Jake had watched her aura wash over the Caliphate spell, picking apart sorcerous symbols with delicate precision. For the next hour, she’d labored in the broiling heat. If she’d touched one magical symbol out of order, she’d have triggered a blast that could have killed her on the spot. At the very least, she’d have lost those pretty hands. In theory, the bomb suit would have protected her, but maybe not. MEEDs had had been known to take out tanks.
Erica had successfully disarmed the bomb.
Whisker Team had whooped and cheered like maniacs as she lumbered back to them in the bomb suit. They’d had to help her out of it, since the helmet alone weighed thirty pounds. Jake had no idea how anybody worked in one of the things, especially a woman.
As it was, by the time she was out of it, her clothes had clung to her sweating body as if glued there, and her perspiring face was beet red.
Dave, being Dave, teased her about smelling like a goat. She’d grinned and shot back, “What’s your excuse, furboy?”
That was the moment Corporal Erica Harris truly joined Whisker Team.
Three months later, Bobby had somehow talked his way into her bed. Jake had been irrationally jealous of his brother. Even Clarence was pissed. But Erica had made her choice, and they’d all respected it.
To make matters worse, Bobby had been an insufferable shit about the whole thing, at least in private where she couldn’t hear him gloat. He’d done a lot of crap behind her back. Though in retrospect, Jake supposed he couldn’t begrudge whatever happiness his brother had managed to find. God knew he’d paid dearly for it.
“Stop that,” Erica said.
Jake jolted back to the present as she took Clarence’s half-manifested head in her hands. It felt as if she cupped his own face. “Quit rubbing on me like that,” she scolded. “No other lions will be sniffing me, so there’s no point in scent marking.”
Clarence chuffed, refusing to cede the point. Jake had no idea whether she could hear the cat or not. Probably. Erica was incredibly sensitive where anything magical was concerned.
“About that.” Jake hadn’t intended to say it, but somehow it came out of his mouth anyway. “I’m going to BFS tomorrow to see Clarence. Want to come?”
She looked up, the flicker of panic in her eyes disappearing behind the emotionless mask soldiers learned in Basic. “I don’t think I’d be welcome.”
“Bullshit. Nobody who disarmed MEEDs is that big a coward.” He hid a wince the minute the words were out of his mouth. Way to alienate her, moron.
Her chin snapped up. “I’m not a coward.”
Rrrmmmm, Clarence rumbled.
Yeah, yeah, I know. Working on it. “Nobody blames you for what happened.”
“Tell that to Dave.”
“Especially Dave. Either way, don’t you think you owe him a chance to say his piece?” He snapped his mouth closed and held up one hand. “Okay, that last bit was dirty pool. Sorry.”
She blinked, looking torn between holding on to her outrage and being mollified by his apology.
MRRRmmmmmm. Clarence planed a huge paw on her knee and rubbed his head over her thigh.
Jake caught his breath as the illusion of tough polyester uniform pants seemed to rub across his cheek. It felt like his chin was two inches from her groin. An image flashed through his mind: licking her there, tasting the plump, wet flesh, breathing in the seawater-and-sex scent of her pussy. Don’t you dare, Clarence. God forbid his Familiar take the thought as a suggestion.
Clarence chuffed a lion laugh.
Erica stared down at her lap full of invisible cat, brown eyes going wide. Her gaze flicked back up to him, and for minute he was afraid she was about to bolt from the restaurant. Crap. Had she picked up his conversation with his Familiar? He wouldn’t put it past her.
Settling back in the booth, Erica deliberately relaxed tensed shoulders. “Maybe you’re right. I do owe Dave a chance to tell me whatever he thinks I’ve got coming.” She sighed. “Besides, I want to tell Kurt how sorry I am about his dad.”
“He knows you’d have come to the funeral if you’d been able to.”
“Yeah. I all but begged, but my boss wouldn’t let me take the time off. I sent flowers and called, but it’s not the same.” She broke off and shook her head. “Never mind. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Bullshit. Yeah, I’ll come with you. What time do you want to go?”
Jake barely managed to suppress a delighted grin. “Around ten?”
Erica smiled, but it looked forced. Well-developed sense of duty or not, it was obvious she wasn’t looking forward to this. “Sure.”
He was asshole enough to take advantage of her guilt. “Great.”
* * *
At her surrender, Jake gave Erica both dimples full blast in one of those wide grins that reminded her a little too much of Bobby’s.
This is a mistake.
Maybe, but he’s got a point. Avoiding Dave is cowardly.
It had been one thing when she’d lived in New York or attended the South Carolina Criminal Justice Academy in Columbia. But she’d lived in Laurel County for two months now, and she damned well should have visited BFS.
Being gutless was the one thing Erica couldn’t tolerate in herself. The fact it was emotional cowardice rather than physical didn’t make it any more acceptable. But then, she’d always found physical threats a lot easier to deal with. After a childhood of getting the shit beaten out of her, disarming MEEDs and magical booby traps hadn’t seemed all that intimidating.
She’d still rather face a dozen Caliphate sorcerers than Dave Frost.
Erica had always had a soft spot for the tall, lanky Texan. For one thing, she’d enjoyed the way he, Bobby, and Jake vied to see who could fire off the worst puns, bad jokes, and acid snark. Dave generally won, though Jake could give him a run for his money.
That he’d live the rest of his short life as an animal because of her… Well, it was tough to take. Better than being dead, maybe, but not by much.
As she brooded, Betty came by to refill their water glasses again. Jake asked for the check and she gave him a sunny smile. “Manager said to tell you it’s on the house, y’all being law enforcement.”
Jake lifted a blond brow. “The manager said that? Or was it you?”
He was right, Erica realized, studying the server’s aura. Patterns of pale swirling sherbet orange blended with cucumber green embarrassment. “Um…” Betty swallowed. The orange cleared away. “Me and Shannon.”
Jake shook his head. “The sheriff doesn’t allow us to accept freebies.” He gave her enough dimple to have her looking dazzled. “But thanks for the thought.”
Sighing in defeat, Betty produced the check, then started gathering up their empty plates as he reached for his wallet. “Forget it,” Erica told him, pulling out her own to extract her debit card. “You’re not picking up the check.”
Jake shrugged in a fluid movement of impressive delts. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Pulling out a twenty, he added it to her card.
Erica managed to ignore Betty’s longing sigh as the server retreated to process the payment.
Side by side, Erica and Jake strolled across the parking lot toward their cruisers. As they walked, a big, furred body bumped her thigh. Her gaze slid to Jake’s handsome profile. The lion shouldered her again. Raw sensation jolted through her -- a sudden vivid awareness of Jake, his size, his sheer maleness, his intense awareness of her.
His need. A need she shared.
I am so screwed.