Otherworldly Bad Boys: Three Complete Novels (2 page)

Dana followed him. “One wolf’s capable of this much destruction.”

“Why didn’t anyone get out?” said Avery. “Usually, when a rogue starts tearing people up, someone runs for help, don’t they?”

Dana made a
tsk tsk
noise. “Someone didn’t listen to the emergency call that sent us up here, did he?”

Avery turned to her.

“Doors were locked,” she said. “People inside called for help, but no one could get in until the wolf jumped out that window over there.” She pointed at a shattered window at the front of the bar. “By then, everyone was already dead.”

“You don’t think...”

“That the rogue locked them in? That he did this on purpose?” Most werewolves killed on instinct. They couldn’t help what they did. But werewolves were human too, and that meant they were capable of murder. Generally, a rogue werewolf could be rehabilitated, taught to control his or her wolf, and released from the SF to continue a normal life. But murderous wolves? They got locked up, and they never came out. Dana laughed shakily. “That would be one hell of a first case back, wouldn’t it?”

Avery grimaced.

The Cole Randall case had been a murder case. It was only the second murder case that Dana had ever worked. If this were one too, well, then she had rotten luck.

* * *

The first time Dana met Cole Randall, she was sixteen years old. It was a warm June afternoon. The last bell had rung ten minutes ago at Brockway High School, and Dana was taking her time walking across the quad to the auditorium, where the results from jazz band auditions were posted.

Dana played the saxophone. She’d been a band geek since middle school, and she had to admit she didn’t think of herself as a geek. The kids in band were her friends. Sure, they were all in honors classes, and they all actually did their homework, but near as she could tell, that didn’t really confer geek status on them. In her rural school, there were kids who lived in trailers, kids who lived on farms, and kids whose parents actually had enough money to buy musical instruments and new clothes. Near as she could tell, the bank geeks were the popular kids. But things here were so polarized that there might as well have been three “popular” crowds—one for the scuzzies, one for the rednecks, and one for the preps, which was essentially where she fell in the social spectrum. In an economically depressed area, she was one of the “haves.” Not one of the “have-nots.”

She’d been planning to audition for jazz band for years. Only juniors and seniors could be in the band, and they got to go to several competitions throughout the year. They got days out of school, traveling, staying in hotels. Dana thought it sounded fun. She fully expected to get a spot in the band. Several of the senior saxophone players were leaving, and she thought her chances were good. But on the way over to check the results, she was seized by sudden panic. What if she hadn’t gotten in?

She imagined the following year of school, sitting in class while the rest of the jazz band was gallivanting at regionals. She didn’t like the thought of it. And so she was walking slowly, because she was terrified about what the pieces of paper taped to the glass doors of the auditorium might tell her. She felt as if her happiness was bound up in it. She wasn’t sure she could handle how she’d feel if her dreams were shattered.

She climbed the concrete steps to the auditorium, gripping the metal railing, steeling herself. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of chatter and laughter from the student parking lot, the place she’d be headed in just a few minutes, heady with accomplishment or dejected and rejected. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She told herself it was only because it was ninety degrees outside, not because of her nervousness.

A guy raced up the steps next to her, taking them two at a time. He wasn’t anyone she knew, but she’d seen him around. They didn’t have any classes together. He was one of the scuzzies—trailer trash. He had greasy, shoulder-length hair. His jeans were baggy and ripped at the bottom. He had on a stained t-shirt.

She watched as he skidded to a stop at the top of the steps and turned around, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Why had he run up the steps only to stop?

“Hey,” he said to her as she caught up to him. “Would you do me a favor?”

Dana turned to see if there was someone behind her. He wasn’t talking to her, was he? People like him did not usually converse with people like her. There was no one else around. “A favor?”

He nodded. He was a little out of breath. “Would you go look at the jazz band results they posted? Tell me if my name’s there? I can’t look.”

“You tried out for jazz band?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice. The jazz band was always made up of people from the marching band. The same teacher directed both. This guy had never been in the marching band.

“Yeah,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “Cole Randall. I play bass guitar.”

She shook with him. “Um, I’m Dana Gray. I tried out too.” She was having one of those strange sensations, in which she realized that she understood some cliché she’d heard her whole life. Maybe she’d always intellectually understood that people were the same, regardless of how much money they had or what kind of clothes they wore, but she had never really understood it on a practical level. Now, shaking this scuzzie’s hand, witnessing how nervous he was, she realized that she’d been judging him unfairly. He was just like her. He was a kid. He couldn’t help where his parents lived. Dana felt a crushing load of shame settle on her shoulders, thinking of the way she’d behaved for her entire life. She’d been a snob.

Realizations like this were becoming more and more frequent as her teenage years were wearing on. But whenever she tried to explain her revelations to others, they always sounded so obvious that she felt like an idiot for not understanding them before. She wondered if she had stunted emotional growth or something. Maybe everyone else had figured this out when they were ten years old.

Dana tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled at Cole shyly. “You want to look together? I’m really nervous too.”

“Okay.” He grinned back. They started over to the door. “What instrument do you play?”

“Saxophone.”

“Should have figured.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have...” He stopped walking, and she did too, finding that she was interested in what he had to say. “It’s only that I guess you seem sort of like a... I don’t know, a type of person?”

She studied her shoes. “You can say it. I know I’m a prep.”

He put his hands in his pockets again. “Yeah, maybe. But I just sort of had this realization... It’s going to sound stupid, but I realized that I was stereotyping you, even though I don’t know anything about you, and you seem cool, you know, so maybe I shouldn’t do that.”

Dana’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God, seriously?”

He nodded.

“Because, no lie, I was thinking pretty much the same thing a minute ago, when we shook hands. And I even thought it would sound stupid.”

He was smiling again. “Right? Because it’s totally obvious. Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But just because you know it doesn’t mean you do it.”

“Exactly.”

She was smiling too. “I hope we both made it. Into the band, I mean. We can hang out next year.”

“Me too.” He shifted on his feet. “I guess we should look, right?”

They turned together and walked up to the door. At first, Dana couldn’t make out any of the names, but as they got closer, she could see the headings. Saxophones. Trombones. Clarinets. She gulped.

And then she was close enough, and she was scanning the list of names...

Until she found hers.

She let out a little whoop. “I’m in!”

Cole had his hands in his pockets again. “I’m not.”

Disappointment coursed through her. She looked back at the list, read the name under bass guitar. “David English? He doesn’t even know how to play bass. He’s a drummer.”

Cole shrugged. “It was a long shot anyway. I know that people like me don’t usually get to be in school bands and stuff.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Dana.

He was already backing away. “It’s no big deal. Congratulations, though.”

She bit her lip. “Maybe we can hang out next year anyway?” “Sure,” he said. He grinned again. And then he turned away to jog back down the stairs.

But they didn’t hang out. She didn’t speak to Cole Randall again until they were both trying to get out of a locked gymnasium, running from werewolves that were attacking everyone inside.

* * *

Dana paused with her hand on the exit door of the bar. “I think it’s a murder.”

Avery spread his hands. “This just come to you?”

“You know who else locked people inside while they slaughtered them? Chase Klebold and Adam White.”

Avery pushed the door open. “You’re jumpy. This is your first case back. It’s a little on the weird side. But not everything is connected to Cole Randall and your past.”

Dana took a deep breath before following him outside. Logically, he had to be right. Not everything could be connected to Cole. The locked door was a coincidence, not something meant to awaken within her memories of the day in which both she and Cole had been turned to werewolves at the hands of their crazed classmates. But she felt so damned connected to Cole now. All the time. The bastard had wormed his way inside her, curled up, and made himself at home. Chantal said that eventually she’d break free of his influence. Dana wanted to so badly. That’s why she was back at work.

There was a ring of police officers and paramedics waiting outside. They almost all had their arms folded over their chests. The ones who weren’t so outwardly hostile still looked angry.

“Took you long enough in there,” spoke up a man in a gray suit, his badge hanging around his neck.

“No survivors,” said Avery, lifting his chin.

Dana sighed. Avery had a chip on his shoulder when it came to cops, and that meant she was going to have to play nice and try to smooth things over. She thrust herself in between Avery and the suit, plastering a huge smile on her face. “Hi there, sir, I’m Dana Gray. What’s your name?” She offered her hand.

The suit just stared at it. “Detective Sutton. You two done contaminating our crime scene? You sure this was a wolf?”

Cops didn’t like the SF. No one liked the SF, not the media, the school system, or the government. Political candidates routinely ran campaigns claiming they’d change laws and get the furs all executed, no questions asked. Thus far, no one had been successful, maybe because deep down people recognized that werewolves were just sick people that needed treatment, not monsters. Dana hoped that anyway. More likely, the SF stayed around because people were scared, and werewolves were better at stopping other werewolves than normal humans.

“We’ve picked up a scent,” said Dana. “We should have the rogue in custody within the hour.”

“As long as your people haven’t
contaminated
our trail,” said Avery over Dana’s shoulder. He let his voice get deep and gravelly, almost an animal growl.

Dana bit down on the inside of her cheek. Why did Avery have to do that? Didn’t he realize that acting aggressive only served to feed the fear that all werewolves were nothing more than dangerous beasts? “The scene’s all yours, Detective Sutton. And I must say, I’m very sorry for your community’s loss. I know how devastating something like this can be.”

Sutton wasn’t listening to her anymore. He was leading his army of cops into the bar. Truthfully, they did have the worst of the job. They’d have to transport these bodies to the morgue, call their families, and clean up. They wouldn’t even have the ability to say that they were looking for the killer and that he’d be punished. Most times, rogue werewolves were rehabilitated. After their time in the SF, they got to go free and return to their lives.

Dana could see why the victims thought it wasn’t fair. But she also knew that it wasn’t right to put someone in jail for a crime he or she never meant to commit and, often, couldn’t even remember.

As the cops disappeared inside, Dana could make out a few news vans on the periphery. Great. Reporters.

A woman with blonde hair snapped her fingers at her cameraman and sprinted toward Dana at top speed. Margaret Lansky. What was she doing all the way out here in bumfuck?

“Dana!” yelled Margaret. “I wondered if we could get a few words.”

Dana used to be the one who played nice with reporters as well as cops, but after what had happened with Cole, she’d been plastered on front pages and television screens for weeks. The woman who’d brought down the werewolf serial killer. No matter what Avery said, Cole was connected to her life permanently.

“We’re following a trail,” said Dana. “Can’t chat or the scent will get cold.” She shot a look at Avery. “Get the car.”

He nodded and trotted off to the parking lot.

Margaret was close. “How does it feel to be back on the job? What can you tell us about being Cole Randall’s prisoner?”

A shudder ran through Dana, making her feel cold all over.