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“We were just browsing through some historical records we said might help with planning.” Fel shrugs.

Everything is connected to the past. The theme continues to reoccur in every facet of my life. It reminds me of the missions I’ve yet to progress on. Hearing the rest of Mémé’s story and comparing notes with Fel about what she’s learned from Percival have been thrown on the back burner. Time alone with Mémé has been impossible, and between work, training, and preparations, Fel and I haven’t had a spare moment to compare notes or reconnect.

“Find anything good?” I ask pointedly.

“There hasn’t been a Lady Coronation in centuries. It was interesting seeing how they laid out the one prior.” She shrugs sheepishly. That’s a no then.

“I figured it was as good an excuse as any to rescue her after we ran into each other in the hallway and she begged me for an out.” Percival beams. The man is a white knight in shining armor … who happens to have a taste for blood. No one’s perfect, right?

“I see how it is. Abandoning ship when I wasn’t looking, huh, Fel?” I shoot a mock glare.

“I had to. My brain was slowly starting to seep out of my ear.”

“It’s okay. The court has an incredible archive of the past. I don’t blame you for getting lost, in the past or borrowing Percival’s memory.”

“Being able to remember everything has its ups and downs,” Percival says.

“I can only imagine,” Fel whispers. He smiles down at her. “One day you’ll have to give me a Cypress history lesson from the first-person point of view.”

The sincerity in her voice is so compelling, I wonder how much of her enthusiasm is feigned. I stow the worry away to examine later. My brain is currently at max capacity.

Chapter Seven

Memories from the past rush to the surface as we pull in front of the retirement home. I see grand-père, all angles and bones as he struggles to breathe. I close my eyes against the pain. Prostate cancer ravaged the once strong and powerful man who stood beside Mémé through the years.

I ball my fists. This is about a case. I know it’s terrible when Carter calls us in. The redheaded wolf shifter and his pack mate, Marcus, work with the local PD.

As crime scene investigators, they help route the more suspicious cases appropriately. We have a few plants working in our version of a paranormal unit in town to keep the good folks of Cypress blissfully unaware.

“You doing okay?” Fel whispers.

“Yeah. I haven’t been back in one of these since grand-père.”

“I know. I was thinking about him on the way over here, too,” Fel says.

“You want me to wait a few before I call Carter?” Sacha asks gently.

“No. Let’s get in there so the coroner can come through and do their job. The boys are holding them off for us.”

She makes the call, and moments later the familiar face steps out of the entrance.

“Here we go.”

We exit the black sedan and meet him.

“What’s going on inside there?” I ask.

He shakes his head. The freckles stand out on his paler than usual skin. A true redhead, he looks more like a Boy Scout than a shapeshifter who could take out a human with a few swipes of his claws.

“Pure evil. I’ve never seen anything like this.” He reaches into the pocket of his white suit, removes some mesh booties, and hands them to us. “You’re going to need to double up.”

“Jesus, Carter,” Sacha whispers

He nods his head. “We’ve been trying to keep everything under wraps. The last thing we want to do is panic everyone. Death is a prevalent part of life here, but the residents sense this is different. We’ve had cops in and out all day, taking photos and cataloging the scene. The call to wait this late to try to move the body was strategic. They can’t see this.” He holds the door open for us while we make our way inside. Clad in expensive slacks, low-heeled pumps, and blouses, with a badge on our hips, we’re wearing what I refer to as detective wear. When the boys meet us, and we walk in with confidence, people don’t tend to ask questions.

The smell of mothballs and industrial cleaning solutions mix to mask the other odors I’d rather not think about. The woman at the front desk nods at Carter as he leads us back. It’s past midnight at Oak Hill’s Retirement Home, and the members are sleeping, or nestled away in their rooms. The photographs and wreaths decorating the doors keep the sterile environment from feeling like a hospital. I smile at the group of teenagers posed on a photo probably sent by their parents to one of their grandparents.

Anger builds in my gut. These people shouldn’t have to be afraid. They’re here to peacefully live out their final days with dignity and grace. Only the lowest of low would go after the elderly.


Tags: Shyla Colt Witch For Hire Paranormal