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Chapter 1

Bringing the heat

CHARLIE

PRESENT DAY

“ M om, radio!” Luke shouts, tossing my radio at me.

I nearly drop it as I juggle my mug of tea. “Lunch,” I say to my seven-year-old son, grabbing his paper bag lunch off the counter and tossing it to him.

Catching it against his chest, he says, “Hug.”

“Hug,” I agree, reaching for him.

We engage in a business-like hug, finishing with our secret handshake-high-five combo, grinning at each other. “Better hurry. Uncle Jorge will leave without you.”

“You too,” he says, dragging his pack over one shoulder. “Don’t be late again for work.” He waves as he rushes out the door.

I watch from my third-floor window as he exits the building, hopping into my brother’s van. Well, technically it’s the family van. Almost my entire family lives within the same few blocks in Brooklyn and we share a vehicle based on need. Today, it’s Jorje’s turn to drive the nieces and nephews to school.

I wave and six kids wave back as the sliding door of the van closes.

I move through my apartment quickly, dragging a jean jacket over my tee-shirt and pouring my tea into a go-cup. Snapping the lid on, I pick up my purse and keys, and head down to the street.

I climb into my company vehicle, tossing my purse into the passenger seat. Before I can put the truck in drive, my radio squawks.

“Fire investigator needed at the scene of a fire in the meatpacking district.”

I pick up the radio. “This is Charlie Lopez with precinct five. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll let them know.” She gives me the address, which I punch into the truck’s GPS before pulling into traffic.

I see the flashing lights of the fire trucks before I arrive at the scene. The fire is out but the air is still thick with ash and smoke as I leave my truck.

Fire Chief Dale Rochester approaches, his features grim. “Lopez.” He fills me in while I drag my gear from the back of the truck, pulling heavy fire-retardant overalls on over my street clothes. “We got the call at 3 AM. Took us four hours to put out.”

I frown. That means the fire’s only been out an hour. “Why do you need an investigator?” Investigators are sent in after the fire to determine the cause, but not usually until the building is rendered safe.

“We have a body.” He has resting angry-old-man face, but today the grooves around his eyes seem extra deep.

“Shit.” I pull on my fire-retardant jacket. “How bad is it?” I’m squeamish around bodies.

Instead of answering, he grabs my mask from the back of the truck and hands it to me. We stride toward the building together, me pulling the mask over my hair and adjusting it on my face. I check the oxygen flow.

“I’m the first one in?”

Rather than giving me the affirmative I expect, the Chief growls, “Cops insisted on going in after the body.”

“Assholes,” I mutter. The building is Fire’s jurisdiction until we allow access to the crime scene.

Nodding at the Chief, I enter the building, pausing until the smoke clears enough that I can see. I spot my prey immediately.

“Hey you!” Carefully navigating through the mess of wet ashy debris, fallen supports and charred wood, I make my way toward the cop. He’s not even wearing the proper gear. “What are you doing contaminating my crime scene? Who let you in here?”

He stares at me as though he doesn’t understand.

I frown at him, my gaze crawling down his body. He’s wearing a mask, but no oxygen tank. Idiot. He’s tall, more than a foot taller than my 5’4” frame. His sandy blond hair tumbles over the top of his mask giving him a disheveled look. His outfit though, from the tips of his shiny shoes to the knot of his silk tie, is perfection. And wildly out of place at the scene of a recent fire.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “You’re the fire…investigator?”

Rather than responding to his question, I snap, “I want to see some credentials.”

A few seconds pass before he pulls his wallet from inside his suit jacket and shows me a plastic ID card. It reads: Detective Lennox Wolven-North. Precinct 9, Shifter Division.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Must be pretty quiet in your division. We don’t get a lot of shifter-related crimes around here.”

“You’d be surprised,” he replies, his voice deep, his eyes unreadable as they meet mine. “And you are?”

“Investigator Charlie Lopez. Fire enforcement.” He reaches for my hand and I allow him to give it a squeeze before I pull away. Despite the thick cloth of my gloves between us, I feel his warmth and it’s unsettling. “You’re a shifter?”

He nods. “I investigate crimes linked to the shifter community.”

Shifter or not, dead body or not, he’s contaminating my scene. I try to moderate the hostility in my tone as I say, “You shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe.”

His eyes crinkle as though he’s amused by the idea. “There’s not much that can hurt me.”

“Not even a collapsing building?” I turn to point at a fallen support. “This structure is no longer sound. A strong breeze could knock it down.”

When I turn back to face him, the pleasantly bewildered look that had been on his face a moment ago has been replaced with a fierce frown and it’s directed at me. “You mean to tell me you walked in here knowing it could come down?” A growl enters his tone as he adds, “A fragile, easily crushed human?” I take a quick step away and clutch my radio harder, ready to call for backup. “I need to get you out of here,” he mutters, more to himself than me and reaches for my arm, wrapping long fingers around me.

“Take your hands off me!” I snap, jerking my arm.

His hold is unbreakable, but he seems to realize how inappropriate he’s being and drops his hand, saying, “I’m sorry.”

I step away from him. “What’s your problem?”

His blue eyes pierce me. “I can’t think with you in here.”

“That’s too bad.” I take another step away from him. “I’m here to do my job and I’m not leaving until it’s done.”

He sighs, some of the intensity draining from his voice as he says, “I have a job to do too.”

Right, he was probably sent here by his higher-ups. Same as me.

“Well then, we’ll go our separate ways, collect our evidence and…” I drift off. I was about to say ‘and never see each other again’ but the words refuse to leave my lips. I want to see him again. Weird. I’ve only just met him and I’m not usually a sucker for a suit.

“The fire and the body are probably related,” he says, his tone dry.

I glance at the body, my eyes quickly sliding away from the gruesome sight. “Maybe they died from smoke inhalation.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “The chest cavity has been torn open and the heart is missing.”

I try not to gag, taking a few more steps away. He’s right. If the victim was murdered, then the fire is likely related, which means I get a partner for the duration of the investigation. Goddammit.

He comes to the same conclusion. “I’ll document the body, you document the scene, we’ll meet after to discuss our findings.”

With a deep sigh, I nod, then for spite, add, “You should be wearing an oxygen tank.”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “My shifter lungs have high enough capacity, I don’t need supplemental oxygen.”

I step curtly away from him and the body, a shudder of relief going through me as I put some distance between us. Lennox Wolven-North is an unsettling man. An unsettling shifter.

His stare was intense, almost proprietary, but over what? The crime scene? If so, screw him, this fire belongs to me.

I clear my mind and focus on the task, switching my brain to machine mode. That’s what my brother Felix calls it when I take in a bunch of information, analyze, and then spit out the facts.

I have to be able to see through the damage caused by the water used to put out the fire. I have to see past the soot streaking the walls, past the piles of ash where furniture used to be.

I notice something red smeared across the walls and floors. Bending, I swipe at the wet ashy debris obscuring some of the paint. A spray-painted message emerges: Go home shifters.

I notice a piece of paper, soaked with water and unfurl it as gently as I can with my gloves. Another message, this one in bold black: Die, shifters, die.

Glancing around, I see a few more legible messages. We’re coming for you. ASHRA unites against shifters. My gut is starting to speak to me, and it’s telling me I may be working a hate-crime.

Standing, I follow the clues until I find the source of the fire. I drop into a crouch, using my gloved hand to feel the floor and wall.

“Find anything?”

I jump, startled, and turn around to stare up at Lennox, who’s hovering over me. A shudder of vulnerability washes through me and I shuffle further away from him.

A flash of annoyance twists his expression, but his face quickly smooths.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I found the source of the fire.”

“And?”

I push myself off the floor, ignoring his hand as he tries to assist me. “Let’s talk outside.”

He follows me out where I drag my mask off and run a hand through my hair to fluff it.

When he follows suit, I suck in a breath. My god, Lennox Wolven-North is a god!

His chiseled jaw with a day’s growth of bristles that are darker than the dirty blond hair on his head. His blue eyes are the colour of lake water on a cloudy day when the waves are all dark and choppy. His suit is meant to define his body, molding to his biceps and thighs.

Glancing down, I note his feet are huge, then, before I can stop them, my eyes drift up his legs to check and see if something else is huge. It is. Clearing my throat, I tell him, “We can’t talk here.”

A frown wrinkles his brow and I think he’s going to argue with me, demand to know what I found. Instead, he says, “Your place or mine?”