Second Nature (5 page)

While waiting for her food, she clicked through all the pages of J.W. Price's Web site that she had saved for off-line use to her laptop earlier. The author had written four books so far. All were published by Red Quill Press, a company that published mainly romances and historical fiction.
Nothing about the new book on the Web site, though, and not much about the writer.

Even her author's bio didn't mention her family, relationships, hobbies, or other personal information, just that she was living with three cats. Griffin squinted her eyes at the chaotic conglomeration of jobs that J.W. Price had once held: waitress, tourist guide, poker player, fitness instructor, assistant at a county fair shooting booth, and volunteer at an animal shelter.

The council hadn't provided a photo, but Griffin imagined a reclusive, older writer who lived alone, with only her cats to talk to.

In record time, the flight attendant returned with her food and offered a cup of coffee.

Griffin took the food but shook her head at the coffee. While it smelled nice, she knew drinking it was not a good idea. "Just water," she said. "Coffee gives me migraines."

Wrasa didn't get migraines, of course, but the flight attendant didn't know that. Caffeine had a poisonous effect on their system. A cup of coffee wouldn't kill a woman of her size, but it would make her queasy. For the same reason, Griffin wouldn't be able to eat the chocolate chip cookies in her snack boxes.

Griffin unwrapped the first sandwich. She lifted one side of the bread and flicked a piece of lettuce aside. Her mouth watered as the smell of juicy ham drifted up. It wasn't exactly gourmet food, but the food in the first-class section was still good enough to enjoy. She took the first bite and chewed slowly, relishing the taste and texture of the sandwich.

When she unwrapped the second sandwich, she opened one of J.W. Price's e-books that Kylin had e-mailed her. On the page with the acknowledgments, the writer had thanked Allison DeLuca, her beta reader.
Seems they've known each other for some time. The beta reader is the top candidate on my list of possible leaks. I hope Jennings remembers to have one of the techies check out her computer.

Jennings was pretty smart —
for a wolf, that is
— but his computer skills were that of a first grader.
A Syak first grader.

There was no dedication in the book, no declaration of love to a husband, no heartfelt thank-you to her parents, no mention that this would be a trilogy because she had a couple of kids to put through college.
Good.
The thought of one day being ordered to kill a child made her skin itch in outrage. As a saru, she had done a few things she wasn't proud of, but that was one line that she wasn't willing to cross.

Or maybe she does have a family and she just wants to protect her privacy.
The biography read as if the writer didn't want her readers to know anything about her. Griffin could understand that.
I want my work to speak for itself too, without having people assume things because of what they have heard about me or because of who my parents are.

She scrolled through the story, skimming scenes, knowing she didn't have enough time on the domestic flight to read it all. A few glimpses would have to do.

The writing was solid, with interesting characters, witty dialogue, and a well-written love scene.
If you're interested in hetero sex, that is,
Griffin thought.

The book was decent entertainment, but it was teeming with all the common stereotypes and Hollywood myths about vampires. J.W. Price's characters were drinking blood and sleeping in coffins. Sunlight and a stake through the heart killed them, and holy water and crucifixes made them run for the hills. They even talked with an Eastern European accent that made Griffin laugh and was probably meant to do just that.

Griffin found it hard to believe that the shape-shifter novel would be any different.
I'll bet her shape-shifters are immortal creatures that turn into furry monsters once a month and can be killed only by silver bullets.
She was almost sure that the writer would turn out to be harmless. Relief wrestled with a healthy portion of annoyance.
Kylin, I'll hunt you down and kill you if this is just one of your attempts to get me to reconnect with the family.

The "fasten seat belt" sign came on. Griffin swallowed the last crumb of her third sandwich and stuffed the snack boxes into her laptop case for later. She had a feeling she would need the energy to complete this annoying mission.

*  *  *

Flying. He hated flying.

There's a reason why there are no bird-shifters,
Cedric grumbled to himself. Being so high up in the air and moving at such speed played havoc with his sharp senses. But he had to admit that traveling human-style was efficient, and he was a soldier, so he focused on the task at hand.

Not that there was much to do. He had read through the information on Allison DeLuca twice. It was a short read. Allison was in her midforties and worked as a program manager for a software company that developed word-processing software suited for Wrasa eyesight. She belonged to the Los Angeles pack and had never been on the Saru's radar before. Nothing interesting about her.

Cedric knew how to handle her. If he treated her like the submissive she was, he would get the information he was after. Getting past Allison's alpha would be harder.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" A flight attendant directed a phony smile at him.

Cedric's lips didn't form an answering smile. He had never felt the need to mimic human behavior. When he showed someone his teeth, no one would mistake it for a friendly greeting. "Food," he said and looked back down at the report on his knees, dismissing the flight attendant.

The scent of confusion drifted over.

Humans.
He suppressed a growl. They were confused so easily.

"Um. Anything in particular?" the flight attendant asked.

Unlike the cat-shifters under his command, he didn't care. Food was food. He didn't need that gourmet stuff Griffin was so fond of. As long as it stopped his stomach from growling like an entire Syak pack, it was fine.

"We have a delicious roast beef with —"

"Then bring me that," Cedric said before she could recite every item on the menu.

When she hurried away to do his bidding, he put away the report and pulled a small, worn book from his pocket.

The smell of graphite and musty paper scratched his nose as he opened the book. The decade since the book came to be in his possession had almost made the crooked handwriting fade, but Cedric knew nearly every page by heart and could still read the words. He carried the little book with him on every assignment as a silent reminder of how dangerous humans could be and as a memorial of his duty.

He thumbed through the book, searching for the most interesting entries.

All of them held meaning. They recorded the dreams and visions of a dream seer.

Past generations of maharsi had never been allowed to write down their dreams. The dangers of having such a dream diary detected by humans were too great, as was the risk of the dreams being misinterpreted by Wrasa who weren't as skilled at dream interpretation as a maharsi.

But then one line of dream seers after the other had become extinct until just one last maharsi had been left — Cullen Remick, Griffin's grandfather. When none of his grandchildren had inherited his gift, he had known that his death would leave his people without guidance. He had started to write down his dreams, hoping to at least give them something to help them understand and shape the future. Only half a dozen copies of his diaries existed. They had been handed out to council members and a few selected high-ranking officers of the Saru. The rest remained in possession of Cullen's family.

Not this diary. This one belonged solely to Cedric. Except for the author who had penned these entries, no one but Cedric had ever held the book in his hands. He planned on keeping it that way.

When the flight attendant returned with his roast beef, he turned the diary upside down on his knees until she was gone. Hunger raged through his stomach as the scent of the meat hit his nose. He wolfed down the first two bites without really chewing or tasting it, then slowed down and read the entry he had chosen.

She's dangerous. A lethal danger, not just to me. To all of us. Her kind doesn't have the respect for life that we do. It's up to me to stop her and to warn my people of others like her. I'm the only one in a position to do it. Others don't seem to see this danger and probably never will until it's too late. It's up to me. This is what I was meant to do, why I was born with the skills I possess. This is my duty. My fate.

Cedric bared his teeth. How ironic. The lines fit his current situation perfectly as if the dream seer had talked about J.W. Price and him. He couldn't be sure yet, but if the writer really was the threat he thought she might be, it was his duty and his fate to stop her too.

When the pilot announced they would be reaching Los Angeles soon, he put the diary back into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.

*  *  *

Allison DeLuca whirled her desk chair around and jumped up.

Dizziness threatened, and it had nothing to do with the speed of her movements. The walls of her small apartment seemed to close in on her. Her skin itched with the urge to shift, to leave the apartment and everything in it behind, and to lose herself in the simpler existence of being a wolf. Things were so much easier when she was running with the pack in her animal form. If she shifted, she wouldn't just strip off her human skin but also the guilt and betrayal that were now weighing her down. Wolves didn't evaluate their actions by human standards and morality. In animal form, things were clear and simple: her loyalty was to her pack, and she had done what was necessary to ensure the survival of their species. In human form, things were not so black-and-white.

With a sigh, she sat back down at the desk.
Wishful thinking.
Running away wouldn't solve the problem. At some point, she would have to shift back, and the guilt would still be there, waiting.

Ally stared at the screen.
I'm sorry, J.W.

J.W. Price was a very private person. Most writers were private about their writing, but it was more than that with J.W. It had taken three years, five stories, and a lot of patience on Ally's part before J.W. had slowly started opening up and commenting on things other than her writing in her e-mails.

Now Ally had to violate that timid trust.

She had always considered confidentiality one of the rules of beta reading. That rule had been shattered — as J.W.'s trust would be when she found out. The bitter taste of betrayal had kept Ally awake for three nights in a row. In the end, she knew she had no other choice than to tell the council about the work in progress and to hand it over.

The blinking of the cursor mirrored the upset thrumming of her heart and directed her attention back to the e-mail she had written an hour ago but not yet sent.

Hey, J.W.,

If 'Song of Life' is still giving you a headache, don't despair. I learned today that an old friend of mine is on vacation in your neck of the woods. She's a zoologist, and she's just what you need because she specializes in big cats. She has helped one of my writers before, and I know she would be willing to do it again.

Let me know if you want to meet with her, and I'll set it up. Or contact her directly. Your choice. Her name is Griffin Westmore, and her e-mail address is [email protected].

Take care.

Ally

Lies. More lies. The council had told her what to write even though it was far from the truth. She had never met Griffin Westmore, and the Saru certainly wouldn't help J.W. with her book.

Come on; send the damn e-mail. J.W. will be okay,
she tried to convince herself.
The Saru are not killers. Not if they don't have to be.
Still, she hesitated, her protective instincts toward the writer fighting with her loyalty to her pack and her kind.

The chime of the doorbell made her flinch and almost hit the "send" button. With an angry growl, she marched to the door.

The scent of peanut butter and pines wafted up through the gap beneath the door. Ally stumbled.
Oh, no. What is he doing here?
Her alpha was standing in front of the door — and he was not alone.

She didn't recognize the scent of the second man, but the aroma of leather, earth, and a faint hint of gun oil painted the picture of another dominant wolf.

"Ms. DeLuca," a deep voice called through the door, "this is Cedric Jennings. Open the door!" He didn't explain who he was and what he wanted. He didn't need to. Every Syak knew the Jennings clan. Ally had heard of Cedric only in passing, but she knew his father, once the highest-ranking Syak saru in North America.

This was not a man you kept waiting in front of your apartment. Ally swung the door open.

Two tall men filled her doorway, each trying to enter the apartment first. Frosty blue eyes stared down Ian Stewart. Never before had Ally seen her alpha avert his gaze, but this time, he did.

Unease swept through Ally as Jennings strode into her apartment. She didn't like the confident gaze that seemed to touch everything in her apartment and mark it as his, but there was nothing she could do about it. Her helpless gaze darted over to Ian, who shrugged and closed the door behind him.

"Tas Jennings." She lowered her head in greeting. Her tongue darted out and licked dry lips. As a simple program manager for a software developer, she had very little contact with the Saru. Never had a well-known tas invaded her home. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Yes," Ian answered immediately. He was trying to get his drink first, establishing his territorial rights and his dominance.