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LENNOX

140 YEARS AGO

S ilence falls as I step into a roomful of lawmen. Spotting my contact, I stride past the curious faces, offering a hand. “Detective Lennox Wolven-North of the Metropolitan Police at your service.”

Murmurs erupt, but my focus is on the man opposite my handshake. Allan Pinkerton Senior. The man who sent the wire requesting my presence.

“Thank you for coming.” His Scottish accent makes me think of home. “How was your journey?”

I offer him a slight smile. “Probably could’ve swum faster than the steamship, but here I am.” Shifters prefer all four paws remain on solid ground.

“Glad you’re here.” He jerks his chin at a wall covered in paper clippings.

Whispers of ‘Scotland Yard’ and ‘shifter’ follow us as the room’s mix of Pinkerton detectives, Texas Rangers, and Chicago police question my presence. They’ll soon understand.

“Victim?” I ask, tapping a colourless photograph. At Allan’s nod, I pull it from its pin, holding it up to the light for inspection. “Are there more?”

“A few, but most of the victims have been found in rural locations where crime scene documentation is a foreign concept.” He hands over a couple more photographs.

I trace a claw over the telltale signs on one of the bodies. “You were right to ask for me.”

“Shifter?”

Nodding, I set the three photos on a desk in front of him. Others shuffle closer. “See here?” I trace a fingertip over the gaping throat wound. “There are few creatures in this world that’ll leave this kind of mark. Wolf and bear come to mind.”

“Not a bear.”

I raise an eyebrow at the man who spoke. He’s wearing the Pinkerton uniform of suit, tie, and hat. “Allan Pinkerton,” he tells me, then glances at his father and adds, “Junior.”

“Why don’t you think it's a bear?” I ask him.

“No bears in that area.” He taps the photo. “And no other marks besides the torn throat.”

I agree with his assessment. A bear would not immediately go for the throat and leave everything else intact. This is the mark of a rogue shifter.

I frown at the array of photos, studying each one carefully. “It’s only the throat in each case. A straight kill. No signs of torture.”

“The cause of death in all cases. One of them had a broken leg as well.”

“Tried to run,” I murmur, and Allan Junior dips his head in agreement. Our killer isn’t killing out of anger or there would be more damage to the bodies. Fear killing maybe? “When and where was your last victim? The last piece of evidence will point to a direction the killer might be headed in.”

We spend a few minutes pouring over a map. Several of the surrounding law enforcement officers get over their discomfort of being in a room with a shifter enough to lend their voices. Hearing from the men around me as they fill in the blanks paints a picture of an unknown shifter terrorizing the Midwest United States.

As we plan, a Texas Ranger steps forward, hostility rolling off him. “Name’s Robert Smith. What makes you think you’re gonna bring this guy in when none of us have been able to?”

I study the Ranger, starting at his spurred boots and ending at the wide-brimmed hat perched on his head. “I’m don’t intend to bring anyone in.”

“Then why’re you here?” he sneers.

“He’s here by my invitation, and by the invitation of the office of the President of these United States,” Allan Senior snaps. “Good enough for you?”

There’s some shuffling in the room and sounds of assent, but the Ranger still looks furious. I’m used to it. Shifter prejudice is as old as time, especially among human males who see the strength of shifters as a threat to their own masculinity.

Eyeing the Ranger, I note his deep tan and the lines on his face. He’s probably younger than he looks. The elements take their toll on humans. “It’s my understanding the Rangers have come closest to capturing our perpetrator.”

His chest fills with pride. “We trapped him near Amarillo, but he took out one of my men and fled.”

“Our suspect is a male?” I ask sharply. “You’re certain? You’ve seen him?”

“No woman could’ve taken out a Ranger,” he growls.

I turn to dismiss the Ranger whose value was lost when he couldn’t describe our suspect.

A woman steps past a group of men, clearing her throat. “No one has seen the suspect. They attack quickly leaving no witnesses.” She glances scathingly at the Ranger. “And a female shifter could absolutely have killed a Texas Ranger.”

“Correct,” I say, surprised to see a woman in the room. Allan introduces her as Detective Edith Thornton. “She’ll be accompanying you, along with the Rangers and Allan Junior.” He points at a map, tracing a line across the American Midwest. “You’ll take the train from New York to Dallas where you’ll switch to horseback and ride out to the location of the suspect’s last known sighting.”

I won’t need a horse, but I don’t tell the surrounding detectives that. Maybe give them a few days to get used to my presence before I go full shifter in front of them.

“When do we leave?” I ask.

“Now,” he says, nodding toward the door. “I’ve boxed up the information you haven’t seen and sent it ahead to your rail car.”

“Thank you, Allan,” I tell him, heading for the door. “You should have positive confirmation of our suspect’s death within a few weeks.”

“Wait just a minute!” the loudmouth Ranger calls after me. “Who put him in charge of this investigation? Texas is my jurisdiction!”

I don’t hear the rest of his tirade as I leave the building, stepping onto the New York street and looking around. I follow my nose, my belly growling as I head for my favourite street vendor whose wares I’ve been salivating over since the last time I visited New York.

“A dozen oysters,” I order, stepping up to the delicious smell of a bed of ice in a wagon layered with oysters and clams.

I purchase hot corn at the next cart and lime-flavoured ice at the one after. Juggling my purchases, I toss a few American coins at the vendor and head to Central Park to devour my haul.

“Mind if I join you?”

I glance at Edith Thornton as she steps toward me reaching for my flavoured ice. I hand it over thinking she’s trying to help, but she takes a bite of it and wanders into the park.

Bemused, I follow her. She leads me to the lake and settles on a bench. I follow suit, leaving a couple feet of space between us. “Figured you’d want to talk to me,” she says, taking another bite of my ice. I guess it’s hers now.

“Does Pinkerton know about you?”

She nods, but adds, “Only him though. He has a soft spot for shifters.” She tosses a smile my way.

“He has a soft spot for our abilities and how they can help his organization,” I counter.

“He’s an intelligent man.”

We maintain our silence, then she sighs heavily and says, “There’s something I should tell you.” I give her my attention as she continues, “I moved here a while back, close to 50 years. I came with my mate. Many shifters were coming here at that time. They saw the wild, barren land as an opportunity to get out from under the shackles of… well…” She drifts off, glancing at me from beneath her lashes.

So, she definitely caught on to my surname back in the office. “My brother, King Fallon,” I growl, finishing her sentence.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“And this is why you came? To escape the fall of Wolf-Haven?”

“No,” she says softly, her eyes on the dirt at her feet.

I give her a moment, and when she doesn’t speak, I urge her, “Tell me.”

Her shoulders droop and to my discomfort, a tear glitters at the corner of her eye, but she quickly composes herself and her voice is strong when she tells me, “The shifter we’re looking for is my mate.”

A cold chill slithers through me. “Shit.”

“It’s why we came here. He was having trouble fighting his instincts, giving into his urges. He killed… he killed a human child.” Words rush from her as she explains, “I decided we couldn’t stay in or near Wolf-Haven. We would have to flee to a less crowded continent, but I should have known the New World couldn’t hold him. When we arrived, it didn’t take him long to start hunting again. He killed human after human. He didn’t care who. I tried to stop him, but he was too far gone in his rage. The last I saw of him was four years ago. I intervened with one of his kills.” Her eyes dim as she remembers. “He nearly killed me, then left me to die.” She clears her throat. “When I was fully recovered, I joined the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

“You needed their resources to track him down,” I say.

She nods, her eyes on my face, reading my expression. She reads it correctly. “I won’t be a problem, I promise.” Her voice is urgent, desperate, but there’s no way I can hunt a shifter with his mate in tow.

“Of course you’ll be a problem,” I growl, turning to stare her down pitilessly. “You’ll try to stop me from putting him down.”

She’s shaking her head, but we both know better.

“You won’t have a choice. Your instinct will kick in and force you to defend him. Go to Allan and tell him you want reassignment. I’ll back you up if he balks.”

I expect her to cry or beg, but instead she stands, her spine stiff as she steps directly in front of me, dropping the last of my flavoured ice on my shoes. Her eyes are glittering, but not from tears. It’s determination I see.

“I will track my mate and I will be the one to put him down,” she says frostily. “No amount of mating instinct will interfere with this grave duty. You can either help me find him or I’ll find him myself.”

A female shifter is no match for a male, but I believe if anyone could be, it would be Edith Thornton.

I stare at the melting puddle at my feet as she storms away.

Fourteen days later, we’re hot on the trail of her mate. I’m leading, running across the dusty landscape in shifter form. Edith Thornton is slightly behind and to my left, Allan Pinkerton Junior on my right. Three Rangers following us.

I track the scent of the rogue shifter until I see him. He’s not far.

His feet are hitting the ground with enough force to send puffs of dust and gravel into the air. It obscures my vision, but I regain his scent through the thick curtain of dust surrounding us, tensing as I leap, my aim unerring as I land on his back, taking him down into the dirt.

We roll several times, teeth snapping, claws scrambling as each of us tries to gain the upper hand.

I feel his teeth at my throat and jerk my head back as his jaw snaps together. I shove an elbow into his throat and slam my paws into his chest, taking the dominant position as we roll to a halt.

“Move aside!” Ranger Smith shouts, his rifle levelled at us.

Edith Thornton steps through the dust swirling around us, her human body bare in the harsh sunlight. The Rangers gape, but we ignore them. Her dark gaze is on me, her hands held up as if urging caution.

“Lennox, you don’t have to do this.”

I’m unmoved by her plea, but goddammit! I’ll have to take her out if she doesn’t back down.

The shifter beneath me tries to move and I slam my paw into his chest, snapping ribs, ripping a howl of pain from him.

I have to finish this. I don’t play with my prey.

“Lennox, please….” Her voice is anguished as her knees give out and she falls to the dirt. “I’ll take him away.” She knows it’s not good enough. No matter where she takes him, he will still be a rogue shifter, still a danger to anyone he comes across. A sob rips from her. “At least let me do it.”

I lower my snout to his throat, making eye contact with the feral wolf, sending him a silent apology as I tear out his throat. When I’ve finished the distasteful task, feel the last beat of his heart beneath my paw, I lift my gaze.

Tears streak Edith’s face and fury suffuses her features. She screams, her voice a harsh echo through the surrounding canyon. The Rangers lift their guns, but don’t seem sure where to point them.

I tense, expecting Edith to shift and leap at me. I killed her mate, the highest sin among our species. She might understand, might even be relieved, but in this moment her wolf is urging her to take vengeance.

I won’t have a choice if she does. I’ll have to kill her too.

She shifts, her accusing gaze never leaving my face as she sinks onto four paws, her fur shining midnight in the desert sun. She turns and sprints, her paws eating up the ground until she’s gone, disappearing into her own dusty trail.