Why, then, would I rather cut off my own arm?
~.~
Jackson
Driving back to the office, it takes me a long time to realize my phone is ringing. I check the screen.
Garrett.
Because the guy doesn't call me often, and that means it's wolf business, I take the call. "King speaking."
"It's Garrett. Listen, do you know anything about a female called Kylie?"
The distortion in my vision and the roaring in my ears fall away, my attention sharpening to a razor point.
"What about her?" I snap.
"You do know her?"
I wait, my fingers fisting around the steering wheel, ready to rip it off.
"An elderly cat shifter showed up here this morning suffering from four bullet wounds, including one to the head that should've killed her. She couldn't shift for a day, but she finally limped into my place, disoriented and badly dehydrated.
"Cat shifter?" I repeated, my brain skipping in twenty directions.
"Yeah. Jacqueline Dumont. You know her?"
"What does she have to do with Kylie?" I demand through gritted teeth, impatience tearing at me, even though I already know the answer.
"Says she's her grandmother. Thinks Kylie works for you and is in trouble. Is this the woman who's been all over the news for hacking your place?"
"Fuck. Yes. Where is she now-the old woman?"
"My place."
"I'll be right there."
"She's under my protection," Garrett warns.
"I'm not going to hurt her," I practically yell into the phone before tossing it onto the seat.
Downtown is just a few exits away. I follow roads that should be familiar as if I'm driving in a new city. My mind turns over the new information. Kylie really has a grandmother. Who was shot multiple times. If she wasn't a shifter, she certainly would have died.
And ho-boy-Kylie's grandmother is a cat shifter? Is Kylie? She can't be. Her fear when I partially shifted was genuine. But how would she have a shifter for a grandmother and know nothing about werewolves?
Another thought creeps in, full of heat and tingles. Kylie has shifter blood. No wonder my wolf wanted to mate her. And it means she probably would have survived it.
But that is water under the bridge. Kylie just met with Stu, proving she was in cahoots with him the whole time.
Except, now that this new information has knocked me out of my stupor, doubt creeps in. Could there be another explanation for her meeting with Stu?
I pull up in front of Garrett's apartment and get out, walking swiftly in and onto the elevator. I stop on Garrett's floor and get off. The scent of shifters-both wolf and, yes, the distinctly feline smell as well, hits me.
I knock on the door and one of Garrett's housemates answers it and steps deferentially aside to let me in. The old woman is on the sofa, pale and weak. She's dressed in one of the wolf's T-shirts-far too big for her.
She sits up when I come in, eyes glowing gold. "Where is she?" She speaks with a thick French accent.
My eyes narrow. It's not my habit to answer anyone's demands, especially someone I've just met.
"Jackson, meet Jacqueline," Garrett says, appearing from the kitchen.
"I smell her on you. Where is Minette?" Jacqueline demands.
"I don't know anyone named Minette."
She makes an impatient slash of her hand and attempts to stand, but it's obviously too much for her. She sags back against the sofa. "My granddaughter, Kylie. They say she works for you. She's in trouble."
I pull a chair from the kitchen table and place it beside the sofa, settling into it. "Kylie is in trouble, yes. She stole hundreds of millions of dollars from my customers."
"Pfft." She waves her hand dismissively. "No, she didn't. These men did." She points at a place on the side of her head where she must have been shot. The hair is growing back, and the skin closing, but she's extremely lucky she didn't die.
The wall I spent the last forty minutes erecting shudders, as if moved by an earthquake.
This is the moment. I either go on believing in Kylie and her story as I have from the beginning, or I stick with my newer, excruciating understanding that she betrayed me.
If Kylie was in cahoots with Stu, there wouldn't be an old Frenchwoman lying on a couch with bullet wounds, would there? An old woman who greatly resembles my little hacker. The high cheekbones are unmistakable, along with something about her mouth.
Which means... I've made a terrible mistake.
For the second time in an hour, my heart stutters. Stops. Starts again to a new beat.
Fates. I sent Kylie away to face her enemies on her own.
It's unforgivable. I swallow hard. "Tell me what happened to you."
She blinks at me with her big golden eyes, as if judging whether I'm worthy of her story. I must pass her test because she says, "Men came to our house. They were different nationalities. One Irish, one American. Two Germans, from the sound of their accents."
I lean forward.
"I was returning from the grocery store. Minette's car was there, but no lights were on. They surprised me-were waiting in the house. Drugged me before I could shift and fight."
What a surprise it would've been for the men if the old lady had transformed into a giant cat and attacked them. Too bad she hadn't had the chance.
"How did you escape?"
The woman groans, and her expressive hand flutters toward her face. "They kept me drugged. I was never able to fight because every time I woke, they stuck another needle in my neck." She rubs a place below her left ear. "Next thing I knew, they'd taken me out in the desert and filled me with bullet holes. They must have thought I was dead when they left me. Thank the fates they were too lazy to bury me." With noticeable effort, she swings her legs to the floor to face me sitting up. "Now, I have told you my story. You tell me where to find my Minette."
She exhibits the same steely determination I've witnessed in Kylie, and my chest aches.